That Sweet Business of Revenge
by LiquidLash
Summary: It was hardly to be expected, stumbling across Gray after all these years. John's trying to make the most of it. Pity Gray has other plans.
1. Everything Has To Begin Somewhere

**Author note:** That time of year again! I hope you all will enjoy the slapdash, sleep-deprived, caffiene-spiked month as much as I plan to. The obligatory disclaimer follows thusly: Anything you recognise as coming from the universes of either Doctor Who or Torchwood does not belong to me (but I wish it did). Everything else is mine, and I suffer for it. And on that note...

**NaNoWriMo word count: **1,857**  
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**No. of Coffees Consumed: **2**  
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* * *

****That Sweet Business of Revenge**

_**or**_

**What Happens When Your Ex-Boyfriend's Long Lost Brother Decides He Wants Revenge On Said Ex-Boyfriend And Uses You To Get It (With Big, Shiny Explosions)**

**Chapter One – Everything Has To Begin Somewhere**

"This isn't wise, Captain."

John Hart looked over at his current (and hopefully temporary) partner. "You say that a lot."

"It happens to be true a lot, sir."

"Ooh, a 'sir'. Aren't we feeling snarky today. Something got your neck scarf in a twist?"

Marek said nothing. Just waited.

John sighed and glanced out at the approaching planet. (That is to say their ship was approaching the planet Da'denn, not that the planet was coming to meet them for coffee and biscuits. Although all things _are_ possible in an infinite universe…) "Maybe there's a switch somewhere inside of you, stuck on repeat."

"Maybe, sir."

John adjusted a control or two and watched Marek out of the corner of his eye. Hmm. "It's _fine_. We can be in and out in no time at all."

"Still, sir…"

"Still, sir," John repeated, adding a pause before continuing, "what? Marek—"

"Lieutenant Takashi."

"_Marek_. Stop fretting and go do something useful. Check the combustion exchange links."

"Did it an hour ago."

"Did I ask when you last did it? No. I told you to _do_ it. So go."

Marek refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just. If he'd had a choice in who he was partnered with, he wouldn't have chosen _this_ man. Not the infamous Captain Hart. The man was an assault charge on legs, just waiting to happen. And if you weren't careful, he'd happen to you. There was a trick to it, Marek had learned after browsing through the numerous (and tampered with) records on the infamous Captain. Something about staying so close that when he lashed out, it hit everyone around the pair of you. The calm in the eye of the storm. It was a hard path to follow, but Marek seemed to be managing it so far.

"Now, Marek?"

Well, just about. Marek stood, facing down John Hart's imperious eyebrow, nodded and headed off toward the back end of the ship. Maybe he allowed himself a secret, smug smile as John growled at the controls. Just maybe.

"One little trip, he said. It'll be worth it, you'll see." John squinted at a winking star. "LeLouch, if you're out there and this doesn't pay off—"

"Are you talking to yourself?"

John span his chair around to face Marek. "I was until you interrupted. Exchange alright?"

"Fine, sir. Perfect working order. Just as before."

"Well, you can't be too careful…"

"Or too bored?"

"No, it's very possible to be too bored. Very, very possible."

Marek sat back down. His green eyes flicked over the various controls and readouts before them. Then they flicked up to look at John. "You're spreading the load, then?"

John grinned. "Something along those lines."

The corner of Marek's mouth twitched upward for a second or two. The man, this Captain Hart, was infuriatingly likeable at times.

The ship shuddered around them all of a sudden, and Da'denn began to fill their view-screens as John's fingers flew, plotting the ship's descent. Marek followed suit. John glanced at him, taking in the furrowed brows almost hidden by thick, roughly cropped black hair.

"Problem, Lieutenant?"

Flick, flick. Beep. "You know I have a problem with this, Captain."

More shuddering. John scowled at a flashing something or other, entered commands faster than Marek's eyes could track and then, calm and mild tone an almost startling contrast to his expression, "Nice to hear it voiced, though."

"This isn't right." Pause. "Sir."

"Says who? You've never done a looting run before?"

Marek had. Several times, after leaving Arjuna. LeLouch had taken him along. For amusement, he'd said. Marek had learned a lot from that man, and had lost so much more to him as well. Everything was in the past for Time Agents. _Everything_.

"I have," he murmured after several moments of muted, ship-wide shudders. "But this is different—"

"_How_?" John snapped, exasperated.

Marek closed his eyes. "Those creatures. What they did to the people they captured…"

"All the better that we reclaim what they took, then. Put it to a better use than just _sitting_ there, waiting for some heartless opportunist to come along."

Marek opened his eyes back up and levelled a stare at his superior officer. Faint beeping from the range of controls, and then Marek said, "I'm not going to bother dignifying that with a response."

John smirked. Turned his chair back around deal with the faint beeping. Marek did the same with his side. John spoke after a little while of this, voice only just audible over the sound caused by the ship entering Da'denn's atmosphere. "You get your kicks where you can, Lieutenant, and if this haul is as big as your guardian angel thinks it is…"

Guardian angel. Marek nearly scoffed. LeLouch was anything but. "What?" he asked, voice pitched a step below John's. "We'll drink and get high and get whores and try to forget?"

The corner of John's mouth quirked up in something that, for the sake of authorial integrity, could not be described as a smile. "Something along those lines."

* * *

Da'denn was a wreck. Long abandoned by any species who could spit. Or breathe, for that matter. The last inhabitants had settled down, wiped out most of the intelligent life forms who'd lived there and used the rest for entertainment, food and fuel. Generally in that order. All viable minerals had been mined; as many resources drained as was possible. Anything the inhabitants could take and use, they had. Anything they couldn't, they'd destroyed.

John hoped to any deity and-slash-or goddess that would still give him the time of day (there weren't as many left as you'd think) that LeLouch wasn't pulling his leg with this tip-off. His breath fogged up the plexi-glass screen of his helmet. He hated these suits, plenty of restriction and not a lot of style, but it was safe to say he hated what the atmosphere might do to his skin even more. So suits it was.

"Straight on for half a mile," Marek was saying, gloved fingers tapping away at a screen of schematics and terrain maps, "then the main compound should be in plain sight."

"Woo hoo," announced John. Marek eyed the back of his helmet. John grinned, then glanced back at the taller man. "You brought everything?"

"Just about, sir. If you want the kitchen sink as well you might have to carry a few things, but I think it's doable."

This earned a snort from John, and in turn a twitch of a smile from Marek. They plodded on.

* * *

The air, when John and Marek finally got through the rusted, corroded pile of mouse-holed metal that might once have been secure gates, seemed to haze. Rank and diseased and fuck, weren't the pair of them grateful for the clean supply of oxygen strapped to various parts of their body? Marek set his satchel of looting related goodies down to one side and helped John lift a girder directly in their way.

Joint, crackling grunts through the intercom they had rigged between the two suits. A series of clanks as the girder tumbled away.

Two corridors later, the two Time Agents quite literally ran into a problem.

"You said, _Lieutenant_, that the generators had powered down." John's fist rammed into the seemingly empty air again, only to collide with an invisible obstacle. Faint ripples spread out from the impact, glittering across the surface of the force field where it caught the light from John and Marek's visor illuminators.

It was never a good sign, when John called him by his assigned rank; the one Marek always asked to be called by. But that was Captain John Hart all over. He never did as you asked, he did as he pleased.

"No, _Captain_," Marek said, attempting to give as good as he got, "I said the sensors _indicated_ that they had."

"Indicated?"

"Indicated, sir."

Another growl. Two in one day. Marek was getting good. He rummaged in his satchel for something useful to the situation while John started to press buttons on the leather strap buckled around his wrist. Several beeps later, something in the wall fizzled and sparked, and John stuck his gloved hand through the air where the force field had been. Crowed a little in triumph before stopping and blinking at Marek's expression.

"What?" he said.

"How did you even..."

John wriggled his right wrist, the one around which his vortex manipulator was usually worn (and today was). "More than you think they are."

Marek's eyebrows twitched. "But they aren't equipped with the sort of technology that—"

"So you equip them," John said, shrugging a fluid shrug – which took talent in those space suits. "Now are we looting this shit-hole or what?"

Marek swung his satchel back onto a shoulder with a universe-weary sigh. "Shit-hole, sir. Always the shit-hole option."

* * *

"The stronghold should be up ahead on the left." The intercom seemed to be crackling more and more the further they moved into the building complex. Even ruined such as it was, a lot of the systems still seemed to be active, and shielded from John and Marek's sensors, too, which only served to make everything that little bit more complex.

"Should be, Marek?" The quirk of the captain's brow was evident even though Marek couldn't see it. "I don't like 'should be', not when we've got a limited supply of oxygen and have been going round in circles for the past Deity knows how long."

"Would you prefer 'indicated', then, sir?" Marek lightly inquired. "Either will suffice."

John snorted, a distorted and mildly disturbing sound that filtered through Marek's earpiece and into his ear. Both protested, and Marek winced.

Pad, pad, pad down the corridor. Pause.

"Your other left, sir."

* * *

A faint, muted beeping came to John's attention more slowly than he would have liked. "Tell me that's not some sort of self-destruct?"

Marek straightened, since he'd been crouched over a sealed crate, and followed John's helmet-visored gaze to a panel in the wall. "Some sort of map, maybe..." He hurried on over to it. Marek liked to think of himself as a someone who liked to be sure some random flashing control panel wasn't some sort of self-destruct system as much as the next man. And the next man happened to by his partner and superior officer, Captain "oops, sorry, was that your spine" John Hart. So yes. Marek wanted to be sure.

John waited.

"It's a map."

"Oh good. Is it a map of which parts of the compound are going to blow up in our collective faces?"

"Not as such, no."

"Oh good. I can feel comforted, then?"

Marek wet his lips. Glanced down at one of his scanners before looking back over his shoulder. "Not as such, sir, no."

John... did likewise, actually. And in the iciest of top-of-the-freezer icy tones, he said, "Oh?"

"Pockets of life support still running. And I'm getting a life sign."


	2. It's A Small World After all

**Author note:** Three guesses as to who it could be...

**NaNoWriMo Word count: **4,141

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**Chapter Two – It's A Small World After all**

"Pockets of life support still running. And I'm getting a life sign."

John strode over to Marek, and even though the Captain's curly haired head only reached Marek's shoulder, the taller man couldn't help but tense. He preferred it when John growled.

"Human," Marek continued. "Getting fainter."

John ground his teeth together. Marek almost heard it over his earpiece, but really it could have been a random crackle in the system... Possibly it had been a random crackle. Possibly.

"And?" said the Captain, looking up at Marek now, expression unreadable.

Actually, no. It was very readable. Went nicely with the man's uncaring tone, too.

"And," repeated Marek, "we should do something about it."

John rolled his eyes. "Why, why, why do I always get saddled with the bleeding hearts? Deity." He grabbed the scanner off Marek and peered at it. "Human life signs. Getting fainter." Looked back up at Marek. "In this place? The only thing we _should_ do is grab everything valuable that we can carry and leave whoever that is, or whatever that is, in peace."

"_John_."

They tested gazes, blue-grey against blazing green.

"Lieutenant?"

"Please."

John nearly bit the tip of his tongue off. "Fine! _Fuck on a.._." He flung his arms up, the scanner nearly slipping out of his hand, and then a gloved finger nudged the plexi-glass visor of Marek's helmet. "But _you_ are going to deal with it. Clear? I take no part in this."

Marek's eyelids lowered back to their usual shadowy and withdrawn perch halfway down his eyeballs. "Clear." Pause. "Captain."

* * *

Several levels of filth and decay and even more dark, rotting corridors later, the two Time Agents, bidden by Marek's scanner, stopped in front of a sealed doorway.

"Airlock," Marek said. He pocketed his scanner so both hands were free to poke at the door's controls. "Seems to be still intact."

"Yippee skippee."

The first door hissed, creaked and slid open. Marek glanced back at John, and the shorter man quirked an eyebrow. Gestured Marek to go first. His sodding 'rescue' mission after all.

Marek went first. When the first door hissed shut behind them, John's hands twitched into fists. He'd never been good with small, enclosed spaces. Or at least it'd been so long since he'd found them a comfort that saying he'd _never_ been good with them was hardly a great leap of logic, or of storytelling.

Mind you, when the second door hissed open in front of Marek and John, all thoughts of claustrophobia and enclosed spaces and can't-get-out-want-to-get-out-trapped-out-out-out-NOW left John's head in favour of him concentrating on not throwing up into the helmet of his body suit. Because that would hardly be helpful, right about now. In the short term, it'd be something of a relief, but it was several miles back to the ship, and he'd rather _not_ do that with vomit two inches from his face. You know how it is.

Marek didn't appear have as much control over his gag reflex. A very, very distant part of John's mind was amused by this. He forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. Stayed that way for several lifetimes, looking out at the floor of rotting corpses, all tied to one another or the walls. Then John slipped the scanner from Marek's pocket as the taller man shuddered, eyes shut, leaning against the airlock doorway for support.

One life sign. Human. Getting faint. John surveyed the room. It seemed almost as if death hung, above the jumble of flesh and bone, tangible, weaving through the gases and fumes that had been relatively undisturbed until John and Marek arrived.

But not _entirely_ undisturbed, apparently. One life sign. Getting fainter by the minute.

John flicked on the external speaker on his helmet. "Anyone here?" It was worth a shot. He heard Marek rasping behind him. "If there's anyone here, saying something about, y'know, being actually _alive_ could be useful right about now..." Pause. "Anyone? Nothing? No?"

"John," croaked Marek. "Use the scanner, will you? It's got..." He sucked in several breaths, steeling himself before coming over to John and taking the scanner back. Location, navigation... Ah, there it is. Marek handed the scanner to John without making a noise, then gestured to their left. Dead woman, dead man, dead boy... All of these were human, and they all looked similar, too. John knew the species that'd abandoned this base liked to hit colonies, as easy and unprotected targets, and he also knew—

No. Wait.

He crossed the intervening space, frown topped eyes searching along the row, Marek not far behind. There, curled behind a middle aged, once sun-bronzed man, and shivering almost imperceptibly, hair in greasy curls that covered his eyes, a brand on his neck like all the other corpses... except not a corpse, as the imperceptible shivering implied. The boy stared at something on the floor neither John or Marek could see, and thus far, he hadn't seen them either.

Time to change that.

At a nod, they hauled the sun-bronzed, death-sallowed corpse off the boy. A flinch ran up his scar covered spine. You almost expected to hear his bones clicking together.

"Hey," said John, crouching a little. "Anyone in there?"

Marek was running medical scans. Or at least John thought he was.

"Oi, sleeping beauty, snap out of it." John clicked his fingers by the boy's face.

Another flinch, and this time the boy – hard to tell his age, the dirt seemed to mute most everything about him – stirred, moaning as the chains John hadn't seen caught around his wrists and ankles.

"_Abhey_," he croaked. Wild eyes flashing in the half light. "_Abhey ikvan. Iktuss. Abhey, abhey—_ _Ik_!"

Shouting. Shouting was good. Showed there was someone home after all. John made another grab at the manacles and said, steeling his voice to be both gentle and firm, "Hold still."

Hopefully the boy would understand Trade. Most did.

"_Ik_," the boy said again, much more faintly than before, as he shuddered into stillness. "_Abhey, ikvan... abhey..._"

John looked back at Marek, a question in his blue eyes. Marek shook his head. Didn't recognise the language either.

"Can you understand this?" asked John, turning back to the boy. Who was staring at that spot on the floor again. John repeated the finger clicking routine. "Hey! Stay with us, sweetheart. Can you. Understand this?"

A frown. The boy's hazel eyes flicked to John's booted feet.

"Do you know," John's voice was soft, and for some reason that surprised Marek behind him, "what I'm saying?"

The boy jerked a nod, shaking a little as he did so. Probably he couldn't help the tremors. Hard to tell how long he'd been alone here, chained to a wall and surrounded by death and rot.

"Marek."

"Sir?"

John's eyes were trained on the boy's face. He switched languages to something that was very much _not_ Trade. "Got any immunisers or boosters in that bag of yours?"

Marek rummaged, to see, and handed a standard Agency med-pack down to John after a few moments. (The Time Agency offered some of the most reliable, fast acting, powerful medical care possible. It had to, if people – Agents – were travelling around all the various galaxies, forwards and backwards in time. They could pick up_ anything_. John and Marek's immune systems would have sent, were they not in their air-tight space suits, near enough all of the diseases and infections in that room screaming for dear life.)

"Fix grav-pads to the cargo and take it back to the ship," John continued, flicking through the slimline medical kit and pulling out various inserts for the sonic-hypo also in the pack.

Marek's lips thinned at the back of John's helmet.

"Then... one of the spare suits, I think. Energy booster or two. Maybe some of that protein sludge we found in the emergency supplies."

Marek couldn't get a fix on the man, sometimes. One minute he was glower and glare, the next he'd be giving you a funny look to match the one you were giving him, wondering why you weren't keeping up with the sudden attitude change. "Sir," he said, letting only a smidge of his surprise at John's change of heart colour his tone.

A breathy laugh filtered through Marek's earpiece. "Go on then, Lieutenant."

"Sir."

Marek made himself scarce, and John returned his full attention to the boy shivering before him. He leaned forward, movements slow and hypodermic in hand, hushing noises spilling unbidden from his lips as the boy flinched back into the wall.

"It's okay, sweetheart," John murmured. "Be better soon."

The boy made a confused noise. Screwed his eyes tight shut when John pressed the sonic hypo to the unbranded side of his neck.

Click. Hiss. Slow, ragged sigh.

Another rummage on the med-pack produced a darlingly useful little spritz spray. The boy seemed more panicked than confused as John put the spray by his mouth and depressed the button on top. Pinked cheeks. Gasping breaths. He hadn't the energy to wheeze. The faintly purple coloured mist disappeared instantly, inhaled and absorbed, and the boy calmed mere seconds later. Blinked slowly at John's feet.

"There," said John. "No point surviving this long to panic yourself to death now, eh?"

More dulled blinking. John sat back on his haunches, frowning slightly as he studied the... not a boy, really, no. Half starved. On the verges of manhood. He wouldn't be half bad, given the chance to fill out. Nice jaw structure. John's frown deepened, and not for the first time he wondered what on Cryst he was doing with his life.

* * *

When Marek returned, body suit slung over one shoulder and satchel filled with the items John'd suggested... Or maybe he'd requested them. Hard to tell, really, and not like there was much of a difference between the two, with John Hart as the suggester and-slash-or requester.

Either way, when Marek returned, with the spare body suit hanging over one shoulder while his bulging satchel swung heavily from the other, the boy they'd rescued lay curled on the floor beside John, free from his chains and manacles, sleeping soundly.

John flicked the external sound off, so he could talk to Marek over _just_ the earpieces. "If we give him the boosters, a bit of the sludge, and then suit him up. Should be in walking condition, then."

Marek crouched by John. Considered the sleeping boy. "What did you give him?"

"All the immunisers. Emergency nutrient... whatsit. Adrenaline suppressor last, before I took off the cuffs."

Marek set the spare body suit down and shuffled his bag onto his lap. Pulled out the energy boost capsules and passed them to John. "I also kept the grav-pads, sir. In case he can't manage the walk."

Thoughtful nodding from John. He settled his hand gently on the boy's scarred, dirt smeared shoulder. A distantly confused string of syllables slipped from the boy's mouth as he woke up and half sat.

"He still hasn't spoken Trade?" Marek guessed.

"Not as such... Definitely understands it, though." John flicked his speaker back on, so the boy could hear as he said, "We're going to give you something to eat, now." Kinda sickening how those hazel eyes gleamed in response, desperate and hopeless at the same time. "But first you have to swallow these." John held the booster capsules out to the boy. "They'll tingle a bit."

The boy took them, fingers shaking ever so slightly. Swallowed each capsule down and then pulled a face, startled by the sensations.

John couldn't help a chuckle.

* * *

The boy began to panic, when John and Marek's shuttle came into view. Not that he'd been entirely calm since leaving the compound where he'd been chained, tortured and generally abused, but this was a step or five up the emotional ladder. Most of the journey had been spent with the boy in a half daze, staring around at the surroundings. To the two Time Agents, the place was a wreck. To him? No telling what it seemed like, but no hastily created metaphor would suffice, that was for sure.

He'd stare, either John or Marek would nudge him along, he'd flinch, sway a little, walk with his head down for several minutes... and then the cycle would repeat.

This was something else, though. The boy attempted to scrabble backward away from the ship. John's sudden grip on his arm stopped him, and the boy moaned. Begged in that language neither John or Marek understood (though it was slowly ringing a few bells in the back of John's mind). Struggled weakly.

"I thought you doped him, sir," Marek said, coming around to the boy's other side.

"I did!" John protested, and between the pair of them they turned the boy away from the ship. Tugged and lead him back around the copse of withered tree-like things that kept the shuttle from view. He relaxed visibly, going limp in their arms.

"Could dope him again."

"Not with the suit on, sir."

John sighed. "Always with the manhandling... Just once I'd like to go a whole day without it, y'know?"

"Sad to say I do, Captain."

John paused and eyed the Lieutenant.

Marek eyed him right back. Quirked a brow.

John sniffed. "Not my fault you walk slowly."

"Of course not, sir. I'd never imply that it was."

"Good."

"But following that strand of logic, your sometimes staggering impatience has absolutely _nothing_ to do with me..."

John hmphed. That was about the only word for it, really.


	3. Ripples in the Pond

**Author note:** Big thanks to everyone that's reviewed or put an alert on this story! Got a day off university tomorrow, so I may be asleep for most of it. Yay, lie-ins!

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 6,001

**No. of Coffees:** 6

* * *

**Chapter Three – Ripples in the Pond**

The boy screamed and struggled with seemingly unnatural energy as John and Marek manhandled him onto the ship, and went limp in their arms again as soon as the airlock doors had closed behind them.

John and Marek... let him drop to the floor. Since it seemed to be what he wanted. Muted thunk. The boy's panting breaths crackled through the intercom.

Three discarded space suits later, the boy wriggled backwards, crawling away from the older men until he bumped his head on a wall panel. Then he yelped and hunched down into a half ball, trembling.

Marek and John exchanged glances, shared a nod and then moved in unison. One case of restraint and several inhaled clouds of purple, adrenaline suppressing mist after _that_, the three men flopped in various states around the ship's cockpit. John was sprawled in his now fully reclined flight chair, slowly spinning. Marek was on a bench-cum-bunk off to one side, head tipped to the side to watch their most recent acquisition attempt to use the utensils they'd given him.

The most recent acquisition wasn't having much luck. Not with the green, gloopy protein sludge in its oval shaped carton. Not with the spork. He'd much rather use his fingers, but the other two had told him not to. So spork it was. At least, that's what they'd called it when they gave it to him. The boy scratched at his scalp, skin and dirt (what didn't get stuck under his fingernails, that is) falling down into his lap and over the protein sludge. He attempted another spork-ful, scooping the sludge up – not particularly caring for the dirt and dead skin frosting it'd been given; he'd had worse – and trying not to lose any on-route from carton to mouth.

Marek's upper lip curled a little, at this. He rolled his head to look at John instead. "Clean him up before or after takeoff?"

John span his chair and leaned back some more, looking at Marek's face almost upside down. Thoughtful noise. The boy twitched where he was, across the small room, not understanding what the other two said, the language they spoke in. "Before. Then we can dump _all _our waste before leaving this shit-hole. Shed some weight now that we've gained a passenger, mm?"

Marek nodded, which looked _funny_ upside down.

The boy on the floor continued to haphazardly schlurp.

"Sir," Marek murmured, tilting his head a little, eyes tracking the wobbling path of the boy's spork.

"Marek?"

Marek paused. Which made John's attention snap back to him fully.

"Lieutenant, then," he said, eyes twinkling slightly. "What?"

The corner of Marek's mouth quirked. "Just wondering if this is your idea of not getting involved."

A snort. "We are Time Agents, Lieutenant Takashi. We _never_ get involved."

He said it so solemnly and with such conviction that Marek had to laugh. The boy's eyes flicked up at the sound. Wary, darting hazel things, circled by dark shadow. The corners of John's eyes creased a little in response, and Marek said, nodding to the half empty carton of protein sludge in the boy's lap, "Eat." He cocked his head to the side in... only _mildly_ mocking inquisition. "Unless you're finished already and don't want anymore?"

The boy near enough flinched, gaze dropping, and he started to shovel the green, ever so nutritional sludge into his mouth again. When the carton was empty, the boy, unsure of what to do, nudged it a little in the direction of John's flight chair – since John appeared to be the one in charge out of the two – and shuffled backward a few inches until his spine met the wall, then he wrapped his arms around his shins.

Marek and John exchanged glances. Again. There was a definite "You or me?" angle to this one.

"I'll do the pre-flight checks," John said, one corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "You hose him—" Jerk of his head toward the curled up boy. "—down, then sort out the waste dumping."

Marek's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed.

John gave in and allowed himself a smirk. "I said I wasn't getting involved, Lieutenant."

Marek snorted. "Yes, yes, you did, sir. Silly of me to forget." He pushed up to standing and stretched. Being planet-side after so many days on Captain John's ship...

Whether the ship belonged to him or Marek was an interesting point, actually. They tended to take it in turns, depending on the situation and how well the other person could fight, bargain or threaten on that particular day. The sleek hulk of metal had been won in a rather spectacular game of cards, of course, but that night, as indicated, had gone so well... and John and Marek had been so out of their heads... that neither could remember who the winning hand, and by that the ship, belonged to.

Anyway. Being planet-side after a couple of weeks in space was always a bit disorientating, and now Marek's muscles were deciding to complain. Marek, in turn, decided to ignore them. He clicked his fingers at the boy to get his wary, jittering attention. "Shower time, for you. Come on."

Confusion again from the boy. John snorted, then looked innocent (no mean feat, that) when Marek's lips thinned in his direction. He turned his chair back around to start the pre-flight checks, listening and grinning a bit as Marek attempted (without losing his patience) to hussle the kid out of the cockpit. It made for slow, _slow_ progress, but John was willing to wait. He was just understanding like that.

* * *

Marek had to look away, when the boy huddled under the steady stream of hot water from the showerhead. It reminded him too much of the way he'd been, after LeLouch and his partner at the time had taken him away from Arjuna, his homeworld. Taken or dragged. Blackmailed or bribed. Persuaded or rescued. The words were pretty interchangeable, depending on Marek's mood when he looked back at that particular set of memories. _Boy or girl_...

"Boy or girl?"

Marek didn't think the men knew he could understand what they were saying. He knew Rinslett couldn't. She kept tugging on his arm and whimpering, mind almost lost to panic. They had been struggling through the collapsing city streets for hours now, both trying to get back to their home quadrants. A familiar face in that chaos was hard to find, and when Rinslett and he had recognised one other under all that soot and grime on their skin they had clung to each other, near sobbing with relief.

That sheer desperation of people, funny little people, wanting to know they weren't alone in a city waiting to die.

The atmosphere bubble wouldn't hold out to another direct attack, no rescue party was coming to save them, and Marek had tugged Rinslett to a stop at the mouth of an alleyway because two men had just _appeared_ out of the smoke filled air in a twist of purple-gold-white light. And Marek had frozen.

The taller of the two nudged the shorter again. "Boy or girl? Come on, Lu, time's a-wasting."

Rinslett tugged on his arm again, scuffed shoes scraping over cracked paving stones as she tried to use her weight to make him budge, but to no avail.

The shorter man's lips twisted, eyes skimming over Marek and Rinslett's grimy faces. Marek swallowed, near transfixed. "Boy. Looks to be more level headed, in any case."

The taller man made a sweeping bow gesture which ended with his open palm pointing toward Marek. "Then be about it, Lu."

'Lu' strode forward suddenly, moving faster than Marek's bunny-wide eyes could track. Rinslett's grip was broken, with startling ease, actually, and Marek found himself pushed back against one of the alley walls.

Rinslett fell to the ground, struggled back to her feet... and found herself face to chest with the taller of the two mysterious men. The message was clear, and she swallowed before whispering out an apology in Marek's direction. Then she legged it.

"What—" Marek shuddered around a cough, and Lu pressed him more firmly against the wall. Marek could have sworn he heard his chest creak. Again, the message was clear. He shut up.

"You have two options, kid." They shouldn't have looked so at ease, those men. Not while the world was crumbling and burning around them. "Come with us, or stay here and die."

Marek _really_ couldn't breathe. A building collapsed several streets away, making the ground and the wall to which he was pressed shake. "C— come with you where? My parents—"

"Dead," the taller man said over Lu's shoulder. "Or they will be in the next half hour." He considered the sky, what could be seen of it through the smoke filled haze, with a critical eye. "Atmosphere bubble won't last much longer."

Marek tried to struggle. Lu pinned him easily. A ragged, exhausted sob tore itself from Marek's throat as he went limp. "Please. Please, if you just—"

"Do you want to die?"

"No! No, Goddess, please—"

"That's settled, then." Lu stepped back, and Marek collapsed to the cracked concrete. Couldn't help the tears that streamed down his cheeks, leaving trails in the grime and soot.

Next thing he knew, a hand closed around his wrist, the burning world turned black from the inside out and reformed as ashes. He threw up. Not ashes, his mind distantly supplied, just grey earth, dead and empty.

Marek threw up again.

Eventually his trembling arms could no longer support him, but he managed to roll so as to not land in the puddle of multicoloured acid he'd just created. His stomach spasmed and roiled and he struggled to breathe.

* * *

The boy struggled in Marek's arms, water going almost everywhere. "John!" Marek called down the hall, trying his best to restrain the kid. "Suppressors!"

He was shouting something, though Marek had no idea what it. Blind panic had taken over. Again.

* * *

"It's just over nine hundred years in the future."

Marek shuddered into stillness, wide eyes on the ancient scorched ground.

"Everyone you knew is dead."

He tried to block the words out.

"Every_thing_ you knew is gone."

Hands pressed to his ears. It wasn't working, and he flinched when LeLouch, previously 'Lu', crouched down beside him.

"Welcome to the new world, little man."

* * *

"The hell did you _do_?"

Marek refused to answer that. Between the pair of them they managed to hold the boy still long enough to get the adrenaline suppressing mist inhaled. He did say, however, once this was done and the boy had slumped, "This can't go on, sir."

"Why not?"

Marek refused to answer _that_ one and all.

John sighed. "Look, we'll dry him off and stick him in the bunkroom. Let him sleep."

"Sleep?"

A downwards nod. The kid was out of it again.

"Ah," said Marek. But quietly.

Another sigh from John. "Always the manhandling." Then a business-like look. "Right, you grab his legs..."


	4. Successive Impacts

**Author note:**It's one in the morning. I really shouldn't be awake, should I? Here! Have a chapter.

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 8,184

* * *

**Chapter Four – Successive Impacts**

John was there when the boy woke up and blinked at him, and then the bunk, and then the room in panicked confusion. John was still there, surprising as that may be, ten seconds later, when the boy relaxed slightly and sent a wary, questioning sentence or two in John's direction.

"We still can't understand you, you know."

The boy stared at him for several long moments, shadowed hazel eyes unblinking.

John raised an eyebrow and swapped which leg he had crossed over the other.

The boy swallowed roughly and asked, in even rougher Trade, "Th... this good?"

John cracked a smile. "Very." He wet his lips, and the boy echoed the action. Swallowed again. John's other eyebrow went up. "Want some water?"

A nod.

"Food?"

Nod, nod, nod.

John turned his head to the door. "Maaarek."

"Busy," came the muffled reply.

"Lieutenant Takashi?"

"Still busy."

John looked back at the boy. Sighed. "Guess we're on our own, then."

The boy said nothing. Quelle surprise, thought John. He unfolded himself and stood, wandering out into the ship's small corridor and into the even smaller galley. Food, food, food... John twisted his lips. Probably it would be best to stick with the protein gloop, for now. What it lacked in favour, it made up for in nutrition. John knew. He had had to survive on the crap for a couple of weeks several years ago after the ship he was in had crash landed, shorting every piece of useful technology within miles. Including his wrist strap. (Ship engines can be so tetchy when you start to fiddle with them mid-orbit, y'know? Mind you. Ship's captains can be tetchier.)

When John came back into the bunkroom, the boy was half sat, half curled upon the bunk he and Marek had put him on the night before. And he was muttering to himself, under his breath. Words that John could not make out or hear, and he wasn't sure he'd have understood them even if he could.

"Water and gloop," John said, by way of announcing his return, wiggling the items in his hands, since the boy didn't seem to have noticed him, lost as he was to his muttering.

The boy started, and almost cracking his head on the bunk above.

"Easy, easy." John came to perch in the bunk's edge and offered the flask of water, container of ever so nutritious protein gloop and an ever so useful spork he'd brought. "There. Food and water, as promised."

The boy... snatched them from John's hands, then froze as John blinked. Carefully put all three down on the mattress between them. John settled his hands over the boy's trembling ones.

"It's okay," he murmured. Because it was true.

The boy looked at him, mute and trembling still. But hey, eye contact. That was _some_ progress at least.

John pulled his hands back and opened the protein gloop container, saying, "Eat." He stuck the spork in it before offering the whole thing to the boy across from him. "Don't worry. Not going to run out, not going to keep any from you. _Eat_."

And the boy did as he was told. He ate. John watched from under a slight frown, and when the empty container and flask were nudged back toward him, he picked them up put them on the floor. The boy's shadowed eyes followed John's hands, and flicked back up to John's face when John pulled his legs up onto the bunk and crossed them.

The boy's eyes dropped again when John tilted his head in question, and John chuckled. This repeated for a while until Marek wandered in.

"Should be about a week until we reach the Merry Month."

John glanced up and frowned. "The ship doesn't need refulling for another—"

"Got a message from LeLouch. He wants his cut, and he's wasting time there."

John chortled. "I'll bet he does, and is." He eyed the boy sitting on the bunk with him, then looked back at Marek. "In the interest of fairness, do you think he'll want the top, middle or bottom third of this one?" A nod to the boy. Whose eyes had gone wide.

Marek sighed and said, "He's joking, kid."

"You hope I'm joking."

Marek raised an eyebrow. John grinned. "He's joking," Marek told the boy.

The boy relaxed. A little. And John laughed again.

"I'll go send our lord and master a reply, then, sir." Marek nodded to John and the boy, John nodded in return, the boy looked a little bewildered (though that might have been an understatement), and Marek left.

* * *

Marek had been innocently adjusting the height of his superior officer's flight chair when the message came through, LeLouch's usually low voice made to sound tinny as it was squeezed through the speakers on the console beside him. Tinny or low, there was no way to mistake that voice for anyone's other than LeLouch's. A shiver had ripped its way down Marek's spine as the message played out.

And now Marek was sending him a reply. "Dear LeLouch," he said, leaning back in... well, now he'd adjusted the height, it was _his_ flight chair, Damnit. Marek closed his eyes, trying to picture the insufferably all-knowing expression that belonged to one Alphonse LeLouch. He snorted. "First, why aren't you dead yet? Second, the cargo's fine. You'll get your fair share, don't worry." Marek chewed on a dried out lip. "Third, we found a kid there." Chew, chew. "And I'll just say here and now that you don't get to have him."

* * *

"You don't get to have him."

LeLouch's tall partner scowled. Marek shivered, stood as he was an inch or two behind LeLouch, the older man's arm... either shielding him or keeping him back, depending on which way you looked at it.

"If you wanted one, Gregory," LeLouch said, voice oozing patience, "you should have gotten one yourself, at the appropriate time."

Marek closed his eyes.

A snort from the taller man, tallest of the three. "Too much hassle."

"Then...?"

"What, we can't share for old time's sake?"

"Good_night_, Gregory."

Marek backed away from LeLouch, when the door was closed, leaving Gregory Montblanc (as he'd been introduced when Marek had stopped throwing up) out in the corridor. The two men had waited a little while, explained a very little, and then dragged Marek off to the ship they had parked.

No, it was true he couldn't have stayed there all alone on that scorched and abandoned planet that'd once been home. Definitely he'd have died. And he had said he didn't want to die, hadn't he? Well then. That was settled.

And now he backed away as LeLouch leant in the doorway and considered him.

The back of Marek's knees hit the edge of the bed he hadn't noticed before. He flinched and almost overbalanced. Uneven breaths. Extending silence. Finally, he said, "What."

LeLouch cocked his head to one side. "What what?"

Marek swallowed. "What..." He wet his dry lips.

"What do I want?"

Struck dumb, Marek nodded. Then shook his head.

"No?"

Another headshake, and another swallow. _No_. It was pretty damn clear what the man wanted. Softly, almost a whisper and barely a croak, he asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," LeLouch said. He shrugged out of his coat as he pushed off from the doorway and walked towards Marek, booted feet making muted noises against the floor of the cabin. Suddenly it was like being back in his city as it burned to rubble around them, LeLouch's gaze holding him transfixed. "Let me find out?"

Marek's eyes slipped shut.

* * *

Marek opened his eyes and leaned over the console to wherever the microphone that was recording this message was hiding. "Anyway. We'll be at the Merry Month of Mae in about a week, if no complications crop up. Contact you when we've docked. Takashi out."

John was leaning in the cockpit doorway, when Marek turned his chair around. "Still got the hots for him, I take it, Lieutenant?"

Marek quirked an eyebrow.

John offered a cheeky grin.

Marek sighed, a soft, weary, some would go so far as to say... _exasperated_ sound. And he turned back to the console.

It had hurt, when LeLouch started. Then it had been amazing. Then it had hurt again. And then it'd been... well, life with Alphonse LeLouch, Time Agent. Acting as a curiosity, a tag-along, a toy, or a confidant, when the situation called for it. And Marek had survived. Sometimes he'd just existed, been nothing but breaths and waiting, but he'd survived it all. Too stubborn for anything else, that's what John had said a while ago, when he and Marek sat surrounded by empty bottles and old memories. That's who the 'good' Agents were. The ones who were too stubborn to do anything but survive.

John folded his arms on the back of Marek's chair, fingers absently toying with the square, rumpled scarf tied around Marek's neck. Marek moved away from the touch without looking back. John's brows went up, but he let it be.

"How's the kid?" Marek asked as he tweaked the input-output settings for the engine's exhaust recycler.

"Talking to himself."

Marek made a thoughtful noise, and John went to flop in the other flight chair. Which was set up for Marek's taller, lankier proportions. John glowered at him, wriggling around and trying to get comfortable.

After several moments of this, he said, "Some would call this insubordination, Marek."

"Would they, sir? That's interesting."

"Put like that," John's voice rang with mild petulance, "it sounds like you don't care."

"Sorry, sir." Flick, tweak. Tiny hint of a smile. "I didn't mean to give you the impression that I might."

John snorted.

* * *

The nightmares started that night. Marek was wasting time in a practical manner in the cockpit, when he heard the boy's strangled, choked off scream.

John had been two feet from it. And now his ears were ringing, Damnit. Shuffling sounds in the darkened bunk room. Whimpers. The light thump of a malnourished body hitting the floor.

John hit the light controls.

The boy choked on a gasp, and there was more shuffling, scuffling noises, and by the time John looked down... there was no sign of him.

Right. Well. Um. John's eyebrows went up a bit, and he reached for his gun under the pillow. "... Kid?"

The bunkroom door slammed open and Marek paused in the doorway, gun in hand. Deep set frown at the room, at John and the absence of their rescuee. Then he tilted his head down, peering and searching for the source of the uneven breathing.

Terrified hazel eyes stared back at him. "Take it easy, there," he murmured, halfway crouching as John climbed silently down from his bunk. "Not going to hurt you. Do you think we'd hurt you?"

This time, confusion added itself to the terror, and the boy's gaze jerked from Marek's booted feet to John's bare ones and back again.

Marek shifted closer and extended a hand. The boy tried to move as far away from it as he could. Which wasn't very far at all, stuffed as he was in the sparse space under the lower bunk. "_Abhey iktuss_," he whispered to the hand.

The words were quite calm, actually, compared to their previous, croaked and panicked utterance.

John frowned, something twigging in the back of his mind. _Abhey._ Please. _Abhey iktuss._ Please don't. Did he have any idea how he knew what those words meant? None at all. Hmm. "Marek," he murmured. "Hang back."

Marek shuffled backward a shin-length and stood. John took his place on the floor, crouching down. "Do you know where you are?" he asked the boy.

The boy's eyelids flickered like he was trying not to blink.

"Well," John continued. "Where you are doesn't really matter, does it. Only matters where you're not."

Marek studied the top of John's head.

"And where you're _not_ is on Da'Denn."

A flinch.

"You're not their prisoner, you're not their plaything. They won't ever have you again. Do you understand? You're safe."

The next breath the boy took sounded like a sob, crinkling wetly around the edges. The one after that _was_ a sob. John made a decision and gently, but firmly, dragged the kid out from his hiding place.

Well, he dragged him half the way out. For all he seemed little, the boy was taller than John.

Marek leaned around them, grabbed the blanket off the lower bunk and draped it over the boy's shuddering form. He cried until the tears ran out, and the tear trails turned slowly into salt as he fell asleep. With Marek's help, John swapped his lap – since that was where the boy had his head – for a pillow, and John climbed back into his bunk, and Marek went back to wasting time however he'd been wasting it before.

The entire routine repeated about an hour or so later, only with less guns.


	5. No Such Thing As Coincidence

**Author note:** Dangerously sleep deprived with this one. Had about three/fours hours of sleep last night 'cause my sister's come down with that winter vomiting thing that's going around... really hope she gets better soon. Anyway. This chapter is dedicated to Ruth and Monica, for being crazy and generally wonderful, and in that order. I hope y'all enjoy!

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 10,047

**Currently music of choice:** Lord of the Rings soundtrack (I felt like it?)

* * *

**Chapter Five – No Such Thing As Coincidence**

They were about half a day from the Merry Month of Mae (merry, mental and simply a shopping de_light_ to the masses, as it was the biggest space station that existed in this plane of reality, and had been for centuries) when John woke to an empty bunkroom. The boy hadn't had any nightmares, John would have been awake in an instant, and... he listened hard... no one using the downsized bathroom.

Hmm.

He pulled on a pair of trousers – most of his seemed one step shy of being paint, when worn; just the way he liked them – with a rip in the knee, tugged a shirt over his head, scars stretching as muscles rippled, buckled his gun belt around his waist and padded down the corridor to the cockpit. Anyone alive in here?

The boy continued to mutter under his breath, lips moving as his brown-green-grey eyes reflected starlight. Marek nodded a greeting to John and went back to playing some sort of video game. He'd picked the thing up a few months ago (or several millennia ago, depending on how you looked at it) and John, yet again, resisted the urge to snatch it up from Marek's twiddling fingers and crush it underfoot.

Stupid bleeping jangly music. Far too upbeat and cheerful for its own good.

"Anything recognisable been said?" John asked as he settled down on the other side of the room to Marek, the boy half curled on one of their flight seats.

Beep.

"Yep."

Beep, beep, beep.

John raised both eyebrows. Marek glanced up at him, sighed and paused his game. "He asked to come see the view-screen. Wanted to look at the stars, or so he said. Actually called me by my name for once, too."

"Huh." John tilted his head at the boy. Shuffled closer to see if he could make out any words. He'd caught a few here and there over the past week. It was annoying, to say the least. Something lurking in the back of his mind, refusing to let itself be remembered.

"_Soefe Wah'rane mantu Fyrpu Mi'shane_," the boy murmured, eyes closed in startlingly lucid concentration, "_tutuss Jassen Mi'shane_."

_Mantu_. Something give. Self, maybe? Self give. Yeah, that made perfect sense. _Tutuss_. Give... movement. To create? John squinted. Then blinked, as the boy continued. It was a family tree.

"_Rosa Dafshane mantu Rybk Hasphane, tutuss Glifys Hasphane. Glifys Hasphane mantu Jassen Mi'shane, tutuss Gray Mi'shane gis_—"

Soefe Wah'rane gave herself to Fyrpu Mi'shane, and they made Jassen Mi'shane. Rosa Dafshane married Rybk Hasphane and they gave birth to someone called Glifys Hasphane. And then Glifys Hasphane married...

John stood up, suddenly, and the boy blinked, words and names faltering midsentence.

"Say that again?"

Marek paused his game again to arch an eyebrow at his superior officer. Dare he ask? No, he dare not.

The boy looked confused. That is to say, he looked like he did every day.

"Say that," John said, voice dangerously slow, "again. You said 'Hasphane', right?"

The boy nodded, and Marek said, "Captain..."

"Shut up. Just— just shut up."

The boy had gone still, eyes wide and locked on John's. John didn't think he could have looked away at that moment even if he'd tried.

Not that he would try, that is. _Hell_ no.

"_John_."

Okay, so apparently he _would_ look away. Marek got glared at. "What?"

"You're scaring him, sir. Just thought I'd make that startlingly obvious observation to save your poor brain the trouble."

John snarled. Looked back to the boy and wet his lips. "Who's Glifys Hasphane?"

A flinch.

John stood up. "Who's Glifys Hasphane to you, kid? Come on. Tell me. It's okay."

Marek's eyes trailed from one face to the other. Terror and confusion versus determination and wheedled pleading.

"She..." The boy swallowed, tongue flicking out to wet dry lips. "She is— she was my mother."

John's shoulders drew back. Here went nothing, and as nothing's went... this one was pretty damn spectacular. "Then you're Gray."

The boy's hazel eyes snapped to his, and John's breath caught.

"Gray?" he repeated, heart racing all of a sudden.

"H—how..."

John's breath caught again, almost a laugh. Blood pounded unevenly in his ears. "Gray," he repeated over and over. "Gray. You're Gray. You're Gray? Your mother was called Hasphane? You're from the Boeshane Peninsular?"

Confused, and more than a little bit bewildered than John had so far seen, the boy nodded.

Gray.

_Gray_.

John started to laugh. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stop – adrenaline and exhilaration and sheer, dumbfounded disbelief seared him from the inside out.

More confusion.

Marek said, "John?"

They even had the same accent! That faint Boeshanian twang. John dragged himself back to the present, where Gray, Jacobyte's _sodding_ brother, and Marek were peering at him.

Sodding _Gray_. Ha!

John giggled, glancing at the other Agent. "Yes?"

"Are you—"

"I'm fine! The hunkiest dory there ever was!"

Marek just raised an eyebrow, at that.

"I knew your brother," John said, attention snapped back to the boy – back to _Gray_.

Gray stared up at him, not breathing. One eyelid twitched the tiniest amount. "You..."

"I knew your brother." John cracked a wide, breathless smile. "I knew your brother for years, and we looked all over, and there was never any sign, and I bloody well _found_ you. By sodding _accident_. Ha!"

"Captain." Marek paused before saying, "John."

"Wha-haaat?" John looked back over at him again, irritated. Didn't want his thunder stolen now of all times and place.

"I think it might be a good idea if you sat down. If you want... Gray, is it? ... to still be alive in five minutes."

"Huh?"

"He isn't breathing, John."

"What?" John looked at Gray. Who was indeed not breathing. "Oh." He dropped to his knees and took Gray's unresisting, trembling hands in his. "Breathe, kid. I've been saying things will be okay since you got on this ship. You going to stop believing that now?"

Gray blinked slowly two times. Then a faint frown appeared.

Huzzah for emotion! thought John.

"Didn't believe it before," Gray murmured, before realising just what he'd said, what he had just admitted, and turning a greener shade of pale.

Or maybe not. John twisted his lips in a wry, seemingly rueful manner, and Gray relaxed a very little. "Be that as it may," said John. Plans and scenarios and possible futures flashed before his eyes, and he looked away from Gray. "Be that as it may, things _will_ be okay. If anything, they're more likely to work out now, now that I know who you are. Doesn't matter if you don't believe it. Still true."

And Jacobyte would say thank you. And Jacobyte would say he was sorry. And Jacobyte would—

"Captain."

"Lieutenant?"

"A word, if you please."

"Sounds like you want several."

"That may very well be the case, sir."

John sighed. Returned his attention to Gray and gave the boy's hands a squeeze. It was meant to be comforting, honest it was. And maybe the fact that Gray did _not_ then flinch or gasp or panic in any particular way was a good sign.

Maybe.

John got up and followed Marek out into and then down the small corridor, out of hearing distance.

"Explain."

John felt an eyebrow quirking of its own accord, closely followed by a cocky smirk. "Getting a bit bossy, aren't we?"

Marek resisted the urge to punch him. Quite politely so, he thought. "John. Tell me what's going on right now."

* * *

"Will you tell me something, if I ask?" said John, going by the name Jonathan Holster at that moment in time.

"Mm," said Jacobyte, tracing patterns in the garish ceiling tiles.

"Something about Gray?"

Jacobyte closed his eyes and whispered, "No."

Jonathan crawled over to him. "Come on, if you scream about it every other night, it must be bad. That kind of thing is better shared."

A tear ran down Jacobyte's cheek.

"Jacobyte?"

"I miss him."

"Miss who? Come on, Jackie. Talk to me. Open up."

Jacobyte started to cry. One tear, then another, and then a strangled sob pulled at his usually quite fine and handsome features.

"Gray was... He was my brother. You know I'm from Boeshane, right?"

"Yeah. That how the whole Face of Boe thing started?"

Jacobyte pulled a face, mumbling, "I hate that."

"Concentrate, love."

"I lost him. I lost Gray, and it was all my fault. I let go of his hand. Mum never forgave me. I wasn't the son she wanted, I was the son she blamed. She—"

Another sob.

"Shit," said Jonathan, ever the eloquent individual. "And you have these nightmares? Why, Jacobyte. What could be so bad to make you scream out every night..." He traced a fingertip down Jacobyte's dampened cheek.

Jacobyte swallowed. Closed his eyes. "There were these creatures. They came one day. Usually passed right over, but that day they stopped. "

"Shit."

"They attacked a whole load of colonies, not just ours."

"Who did?"

Jacobyte just shook his head, then buried it in his heads. "The screams. The screaming always came before them, and we didn't think they'd stop, but they did. They stopped and they killed my dad and they took Gray or they killed him or—"

* * *

John attempted to drag his thoughts together. His thoughts rebelled and threatened to form a democracy. He laughed at them.

"John?"

John stopped laughing. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. If you could turn into an explanation right about now, that'd be quite useful and very much appreciated. " There was a partner of mine, years and years back. He had a brother who'd gotten misplaced somewhere along the line. Turns out our Gray here's the long lost brother."

"Misplaced? You call that misplaced?"

"Colony got attacked," John said softly.

Marek blew out a breathy string of curses, and John watched the air between them in case it decided to suddenly, and quite understandably, turn blue.

"What are you going to do?" the young lieutenant asked.

John ran a hand through his bed-bedraggled hair, which looked a bit like a trainee afro at that moment in time, what with the teeny ruffled curls sticking out at odd angles and such. "Don't know yet. I mean I only just found out, for Deity's sake."

Marek smirked. And John wondered, not for the first time, why they weren't shagging. "That doesn't mean you haven't already got a couple of plans in the making, Captain."

John chuckled low in his throat. "And you think you know how I work now, do you?"

"I think I've observed enough to be pretty certain."

"Yes?"

"Yes." Marek wet his lower lip. Sighed. "And stop trying to subtly lean in. For the last time, I'm not interested."

"You _say_ that..."

"And I mean it. Funny how the world works, isn't it, sir?"

John glanced down the corridor toward the cockpit. Gray's feet were just about visible from where they protruded from his curl on the flight chair. "Funny," he murmured, before looking back at Marek. "Yeah, I'll go with that one."


	6. Neverland of Fun

**Author note:** LeLouch was only ever meant to appear in flashbacks, y'know. Stupid uppity characters. *sigh* Anyway! Today's chapter title is taken from Darren Hayes' brilliant song _Neverland_. Also, I promise that I do have a plot, honest, if a rather vague one.

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 11,815

* * *

**Chapter Six – Neverland of Fun**

John and Marek had Gray flanked, as the three of them walked through the crowded chaos that was the Merry Month of Mae, and regardless of that fact, regardless of the way people moved out of their path – Gray still flinched at almost everything.

So many people. So many species. So much life.

There had been a few colonies on Boeshane. Most of them human, some of them not, and that had been Gray's extent of inter-species relations; an exchange of food, gifts or useful technologies every planet cycle or so.

It had nothing on this place.

He kept his eyes down, but still the feet and colours and miscellaneous limbs swirling past were enough to overwhelm him. The constant presence of Marek and John was nice, though. No way to ever think _they_ didn't exist or were just another trick of his mind.

That had happened, a few times. After Fael had died and Gray was left to wonder how long it'd be before he died too. He would imagine he'd be rescued, the faces of his mother and father and friends and _him_ dancing behind closed lids. He'd imagine, when he couldn't help it, that... that _they_ would come back, and that they would take him away to whichever planet they were currently ravishing, and the whole cycle would repeat until they got bored of him again.

Ten years, and they hadn't gotten bored of him once. His body, with hidden fractures and line after line of scarring, was proof of that.

Ahead of the two time agents and their... something (Gray wasn't really sure _what_ he was), a bizarre creature that looked rather like one of the chickens Gray's family had kept back on Boeshane ducked through a set of legs and startled Gray out of his thoughts. Well, it would have looked like one of those chickens if not for the fact that it had three heads and a long blue lolling tongue. It was also making a disturbing array of noises, as most animals do when escaping their owners, being sure of the knowledge that their owners want nothing more than to baste 'em, cook 'em and eat 'em. It squawk-hiss-garbled at Gray. Gray screamed back at it.

"What the—"

"Kid! Gray. Fuck, kid, come on. Calm down."

Gray shook his head in an extremely vehement manner, and only subsided when John kicked the squawking, hissing, garbling, flapping creature away.

Unfortunately, its owner, who was carrying a half crushed cage of some sort and had only the_ two_ heads, appeared half a minute or so later looking quite harried and exasperated and demanded to know where the creature was. Gray decided to faint. The last thing he was aware of were arms around his chest and a voice swearing to his left.

* * *

When Gray woke, everything was dark. And quiet. He rather liked the quiet, but the dark wasn't to be trusted as much.

No, wait.

The sound of soft breathing from nearby. His eyes flicked to the sound, and slowly the familiar profile of Marek Takashi's face formed from smudges in the darkness. Gray felt his shoulders relax in response.

Marek looked over at him, green eyes gleaming briefly in the faint illumination that was coming from under the... there was a door there? Gray had no idea where this was. Couldn't have been John and Marek's ship; no humming of an engine.

Gray found himself missing the hum, all of a sudden. And this startled him.

"Hi," he whispered to Marek. Because it seemed the thing to do.

"Hello," Marek said in return, voice hinting amusement. "Gave us quite a turn, back there. Never seen a jycwar before?"

"N..." Was that what that... that _thing_ had been? "No," said Gray.

Marek chuckled. "Yeah, they're weird looking. Taste good, though..." He trailed off before adding, again with that hint of amusement, "But, as seen today, you have to actually catch the things first."

Gray didn't say anything, then twitched as the sound of laughter drifted through the wall behind him. Two people, at least. Gray thought one of them sounded like John.

He wet his lips, swallowed and then coughed. Marek was holding a flask of... he assumed it was water; definitely sloshed like water... out to him before he could blink. He did blink, though, and then accepted it and wriggled backwards so his back was to the wall. He still hunched, even when lying down. It just felt safer. Something familiar, something that he _knew_.

Sip.

* * *

Marek knew Gray had woken when he heard the change in breathing patterns, and looked over at him a few moments later.

"Hi," the boy whispered, the shadows on his face multiplied .

A smile tugged at the corners of Marek's mouth. Words! Words that were willingly given. The shock of it nearly floored him. Sort of. (Well, maybe not.) He murmured a greeting in return. "Gave us quite a turn, back there. Never seen a jycwar before?"

Gray had fainted dead away between John and Marek, out in the crowded corridors of the Merry Month of Mae. Marek kept him as upright as he could while John made suggestions to the jycwar's owner about the location of the stray, garbling jycwar. First place to look? Up the jycwar's owner's arse. And preferably away from John.

The jycwar's owner had made himself scarce quite quickly, and between them, John and Marek had gotten Gray to a quiet corner and contacted LeLouch. One set of coordinates and a quick teleport later, Gray was settled in a spare room, Marek had decided to stay with him, and John had found LeLouch's liquor cabinet. That was two hours ago.

"N- no."

"Yeah, they're weird looking. Taste good, though. But, as seen today, you have to actually catch the things first."

Silence. Silence broken by laughter from John and LeLouch. Marek was about to pass comment when the boy coughed. He seemed surprise, when Marek was there with the water flask, but then he sat up and leaned against the wall and Marek sat back in his own chair. Took a sip of his drink, pilfered before John could get his hands on it.

* * *

John laughed at the caramel blonde haired man sat opposite over the rim of his glass.

"I'm _not_ sexually frustrated," LeLouch was saying. "I'm not!"

"What are you, then?"

"Partner-impaired?"

Another laugh. "I beg to differ, friend."

"Then you beg to be wrong," LeLouch said, saluting John with his own, half empty glass (he preferred to think of it as half empty rather than half full because half empty meant it was closer to being _fully_ empty... and when a glass was empty, you topped it up). "And since when have you ever called me 'friend'?"

"Never? But you're the one supplying booze, so it helps to be polite."

"Ah. Yes. Can't fault you there."

John chuckled and refilled both their glasses.

"What's the deal with the kid, then?"

"Hands off, that's what the deal is."

LeLouch huffed. "The assumptions I'm getting off the pair of you since you two got cosy, Goddess... I want to know who he is. Nothing funny. Honest."

"I'm keeping him for a friend."

LeLouch's grey eyes narrowed slightly. "A friend," he said, voice flat with disbelief. Then he snorted. "A lover, then. An ex-lover?"

John sighed and muttered, "I think everyone I know is an ex-something or other."

"And you're hoping he _won't_ be an ex-friend when you show up with the kid," LeLouch continued, tilting his head. "Mm?"

"Alphonse LeLouch," John began, voice taking a solemn turn, "I will drink myself blind if I so choose, but there is no law that obliges me to speak of my problems, or my plans, with you."

LeLouch grinned, knowing he was on the money, but his victory was interrupted when Marek appeared from the spare room. At a questioning look from John, the young lieutenant nodded, then gestured to the small kitchenette in the far corner. John's turn to nod. LeLouch considered the both of them in a bemused, alcohol-relaxed manner.

"What's the deal with the kid, then?" he decided to ask of Marek as the black haired lieutenant walked past.

Marek paused for a split-second before continuing to the kitchenette and pulling the stasis cupboard door open. Rummaging ensued. "Ask John."

John smirked as LeLouch's gaze returned to him. "Ha," he said.

LeLouch rolled his eyes and drained his glass in one go, slumping back on the chair's lumpy pillows. The place wasn't the _worst_ he'd ever stayed in, but it definitely ranked in the top ten. Then again, it was cheap and no questions were asked. Which bumped it up a bit in the rankings, LeLouch had to admit.

The rummaging concluded, and Marek turned around, leaning his hip on the counter behind. "There's nothing here he can eat. Not yet, anyway."

LeLouch frowned and twisted his head to see Marek. "I've got food in there."

One of Marek's brows raised slightly, and John bit back a smirk at not being the one to get the eyebrow treatment for once. "You have snacks, Lu, and left over take-out."

"The other cupboard?"

"Bare except for one teabag, a bottle of lube and a fuzzy thing on a plate riiight at the bottom that might actually be about to invent the wheel."

LeLouch hmphed. John choked on a laugh.

"Did find several hundred takeaway flyers, though," Marek continued, fanning the strips of digital paper between his fingers for John and Marek to see.

"Takeaway it is," said John. He held out his hand and finger-wiggled until Marek came over and put the flashing strips on his palm. Then he ducked in time for Marek's now empty hand to completely miss his head. Grinned as he perused the menus. "Hrmm pum pum. What do people fancy?"

Marek and LeLouch's gazes met for a moment, then. "Oh, I don't know," LeLouch murmured. "Could go for several things right about now."

Marek looked away. After several seconds of studying the wall, and of knowing that LeLouch was studying _him_, he tapped John on the shoulder. "I don't care. Just make it hot. And get something simple, for Gray."

John made a thoughtful noise. Blinked up, as if realising he'd missed something, and looked between the two other men. "Ooh-kay... Past issues are going to have to wait until the food's arrived. Deal?"

Marek went back into the spare room, choosing not to dignify that with a response.


	7. First Impressions, Second Thoughts

**Author note:** Up at half six tomorrow, and then Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Friday... University, I love you, but whaaaat is with the hideously early mornings, eh? Thanks for anyone who's reviewed! I love knowing what you think (and that you like XD).

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 14,167

* * *

**Chapter Seven – First Impressions, Second Thoughts and the Third Degree**

Marek went back into the spare room without responding to John's question (though it could be argued that his actual leaving was a response in itself) and almost hit Gray in the face with the door. Gray flinched back and dropped to sit on the edge of the bed, mumbling, "Sorry."

Marek shut the door, then leant back against it and allowed his teeth to grit for several fulfilling seconds.

Gray watched him, a little bit wary.

"You know, for a while I thought that man's smile could light up the room? Now I remember it was just the glow of everyone else's hopes and dreams being incinerated."

Gray blinked. Frowned the slightest bit.

Marek sighed, slumping against the door a little before pushing off of it and sitting back down in his chair. "Food will be in a little while. John and Lu are just bickering over the menus."

The frown grew, but Gray said nothing.

Marek quirked an eyebrow. "If you want to ask anything, go right ahead and ask."

Hesitation, and then... "What's menus?"

Ah. Marek's eyes creased a little, and he managed to get halfway through an explanation when the door clicked open behind him. He twisted his head to look, since the person didn't announce themselves, but he had his suspicions...

And his suspicions were proved correct. LeLouch, damn him, leaned casually in the doorway and looked between Marek and Gray. Settled his gaze on Gray. "Out."

Marek saw Gray tense out of the corner of his eye, as if unsure. Which was perfectly understandable. The boy darted a questioning glance at Marek, who raised a "This had better be good" type eyebrow at LeLouch before nodding.

Gray fled the room.

* * *

"So where've you been?" John asked, still browsing the take-out flyers, once Marek had disappeared.

LeLouch blinked away from the door to the spare room. "What?"

"Oh, just wondering how you've been passing the time..." John flashed a tight smile over at him.

"Did a couple of Agency jobs in the forty third. Skipped ahead to the seventieth, after a tip off from old... whatsherface. Purple hair."

"Voldu?"

"No, the one with the..." LeLouch made a vague, swooping gesture at the side of his head.

"... Carmichael?"

"Yeah! Her. Then I came back here."

John made a thoughtful noise, and LeLouch's lips twisted. He looked to the spare room's door again. "Back in a moment..."

Several of these moments later, Gray scurried out of the room and John had just enough time to see the withering expression Marek was sending LeLouch before the door shut again. John raised an eyebrow as Gray paused, unsure of where to go or what to do.

"Come sit next to me," John said, patting the sofa beside him. "You can see if you recognise anything from these." The takeaway flyers, still flashing cheerily away, got wiggled for emphasis.

Gray sat down and wrapped his arms around himself. The clothing he had been given by John and Marek was slowly becoming familiar. Strangely cut, but warm and soft and much preferable to the grimy layer of rags he'd had before.

John noticed this and asked, "Cold?"

Gray shook his head.

"Okay," John said, but he still tugged a few pillows closer around the boy. Started to go through the different menus.

* * *

"Out," said LeLouch, and the boy left as fast as he could. "How've you been, kid?"

Marek gave LeLouch the most withering expression he could muster. "I'm hardly a child, LeLouch."

"Well, no. But you'll always be that shivering little teen to me." The man cracked a smile to show how he meant it.

Unfortunately, the words had already hit their mark.

Marek stood up. "What do you want, Lu?"

"Want to talk. That illegal now?"

"In some places, I'm sure it must be."

LeLouch sighed. Scrubbed a hand through his hair, which had been much longer the last Marek had seen him. LeLouch had had it long enough for a ponytail, back then, and now it was just at that length where it refuses to fit behind your ears and itches at your eyes.

Looked good, on him. Marek sat back down, for lack of anything useful to do or say.

"Am I supposed to know the reason behind this huff of yours?"

"What?"

"You're annoyed."

"I'm not—"

"You are," LeLouch said, cutting him off and smirking.

Marek glared. "Damnit, Lu, stop thinking you know me better than I know myself."

LeLouch pushed off the door. Slowly circled Marek's chair. "What makes you think I don't? I made you," he purred, leaning down so his chin was almost brushing Marek's shoulder. "I know what makes you tick."

Marek almost punched him. But, the Goddess only knows how, he managed not to. And LeLouch must have noticed this, because he backed off a little and sat on the edge of the bed. Marek turned to look at him.

"Going to deny it?" LeLouch's expression, his tone, his _everything_, was a challenge.

"No," murmured Marek.

LeLouch stood back up again. Rested a hand lightly on both of Marek's shoulders. Looked down into his green eyes, frowning.

Marek was impassive, or he was trying to be, as he gazed up at the man that had, once upon a time, taken everything away from him. Tainted him and broken him and sullied him in every way imaginable. But LeLouch had also been the one to show Marek that it didn't matter. That everything could be overcome. Everything could be survived.

Being partners with Captain John Hart had only solidified the knowledge.

"You said you'd miss me, last time we were together," LeLouch said, eyes searching.

Both of Marek's eyebrows quirked up a little in disbelief. "And you laughed."

"Did you mean it?"

"Did I mean _what_?"

"What you said. That you'd miss me."

More disbelief. "Of course I did, Lu."

LeLouch chewed his lip in a rare display of uncertainty, and Marek blinked. Then LeLouch ducked his head down and was pressing his lips to Marek's and Marek couldn't think and the last five years of not knowing and no contact clenched in his chest and his breath caught and—

He put his hands on LeLouch's chest. LeLouch made a pleased sound into the kiss, which died a death when Marek shoved. "No," he said.

This time it was LeLouch's turn for the disbelieving eyebrows. "No?"

Marek tried to keep his breathing even. LeLouch sensed his chance and ducked back down. The chair's back stopped Marek from shifting away.

"I know you want to," LeLouch said, running his nose down Marek's cheek.

Marek tried to keep his eyes open. The gentle scenting was... He bit his lip. "Lu..."

One of LeLouch's hands slid up into Marek's hair, grabbed a cropped handful and tugged backwards. Marek yelped, then groaned softly as LeLouch swiped a lick down his neck. Shivered when LeLouch nibbled his way back up.

And he almost gave in. _Almost_. His harsh shove nearly had LeLouch toppling, this time. "I said no," Marek growled. "I meant it."

LeLouch laughed a startled laugh. "You've been Hart's partner for how long and you still know the meaning of the word?" Derisive snort. "Guy's losing his touch."

Marek's eyelids fluttered. "I haven't slept with him."

"No?"

"We're friends."

"You're..." LeLouch laughed again. "Oh, that's cute. No, really. You're breaking my heart."

Marek gave up. He really did. He also _got_ up and made to leave the room. LeLouch stopped him, a gentle hand on the middle of his chest, grounding him.

"I missed you," LeLouch said, voice soft, barely a murmur.

Green eyes raised to grey ones, then looked away again. The wall beside LeLouch's head got stared at for a long moment before Marek said, "Missed you, too."

A couple of LeLouch's fingers wormed between the ties of Marek's shirt. Cool fingertips over a stuttering heart. Marek met his gaze again. Frowned a little. "You don't look that much older. How long's it been for you?"

"A year, maybe." LeLouch frowned back up at him. "You?"

"Five."

LeLouch closed his eyes in a slow blink. "Ah."

Marek shrugged. "Happens, with this job."

And suddenly LeLouch's signature grin was grinning up at Marek. Deft fingers undid shirt ties before Marek could move.

"How about I make that time up to you?" LeLouch purred, and Marek didn't stop him. He just sighed and let his eyes slip shut.

* * *

The takeaway, delivered by a bored looking flying monkey, arrived only moments after the groaning from the spare room started up.

The monkey kept hold of the steaming bags of food as John rummaged around in his jacket. Gray stayed on the sofa, darting confused and wary glances between the door to the spare room, and the monkey in the doorway of the apartment.

Money and food exchanged and in the respective hands (or feet) of the people that wanted them, the monkey tugged his cap at John and at Gray and then made a questioning "ook" sound in the direction of the spare room.

John snorted a laugh and tipped the creature a few extra credits. "Scram."

The winged monkey tugged at his cap again in a vague sort of salute and grinned (count those teeth, would you?) before scampering off.

John shut the door. Gray relaxed a little, at this, his shoulders slumping in the process, and John took the bags of steaming food over to the kitchenette to start doling it all out. He considered using the plates in the cupboard, for a moment , but given the state of LeLouch's crockery... splitting the food items up in their containers looked to be the safest bet. So John did that, after humming a little greeting to the fuzzy blob on the plate on the bottom shelf.

"The question is, Gray," he said, putting the container of grainy, mealy, simple Ndovn aside for the boy seated somewhere in the room behind him, "do we tell the budding, rutting couple that the food's arrived, or do we eat it all ourselves?" John glanced back over his shoulder and grinned.

A small smile tweaked at the corners of Gray's mouth, and he blinked several times. Dropped his gaze. But that was the longest the boy had kept eye contact, to John's reckoning, and John felt that deserved a reward. Grin taking a wry turn, he returned his attentions to the food in front of him and continued to portion it all out.

Gray took the steaming container and spoon offered to him, when John returned to the sofa with their food. Didn't recognised the pale yellow mix, but at an encouraging nod from John, he started to eat. Made a startled noise after his first bite, too.

John swallowed his own mouthful of noodles and tasty fried sludge. "Good?"

Gray's hazel eyes darted between the portions of food on their respective laps. Flicked up to meet John's. "Yes," he murmured, before wetting his lips and swallowing. His head tilted the slightest bit. "What is it?"

"Something called Ndovn. Made from... oh, erm, what was it..." John squinted. "No, I can't remember. But you like it?"

Gray ducked a nod. John smiled.

* * *

Marek and LeLouch sat on opposite ends of the tiny bed, legs and sheets tangled between them, trying to get their breaths back.

"You sure you never slept with him?"

Marek chuckled, still riding the adrenaline high. He tipped his head back against the wall. Closed his eyes. "Mostly. I'm mostly sure." Marek's eyes flicked open, glittering in the half-light. "Did you ever...?"

"Once," said LeLouch, chuckling himself. "And once was enough, Goddess."

Marek ran his big toe along the ridge of LeLouch's hip. Somehow the action contrived to be thoughtful, and LeLouch tilted his head in question.

"Where'll you go, after you've got your cut?"

That one made LeLouch pause. He frowned across the bed at Marek and avoided the question in favour of rummaging through his thigh-length coat (which had been a present from a pretty young thing in the thirty seventh whose life he'd saved... for a given value of 'saved', anyway) to find the roll-ups of _khalroe_ he'd bought the other night. Offered one of the herb filled cylinders to Marek as he popped another into his mouth.

Marek took it. Brought out a pulse-lighter from the scattered remains of his clothes before LeLouch could reach for his own. Paused and sniffed the air. "Food's here."

"Food's been here a while."

Marek rolled his eyes. Of course, of course. He lit up his own cigarette before tossing the lighter to LeLouch, then he straightened to reach for the rest of his clothes. Straightened and coughed, eyes watering. "Goddess," he mumbled, pulling the offending article from between his lips. "The hell's this?"

"_Khalroe_. Fresh from the St. Benedetti system." LeLouch sighed happily, blue smoke pluming above his head. "Tingly, ain't it?"

"Tingly's a word for it..." Marek shook his head, afraid that he'd never get the bristling taste of lemons out of his frontal lobe. He took a cautious pull, eyes tight against the urge to cough again, and let the smoke drift in unsettlingly blue curls out of his nostrils. Puff, huff. "Tingly. Yes. Quite."

LeLouch chuckled. His eyes already looked a bit glazed over as he tipped his head back till it rested against the wall.

Marek decided to throw the man's trousers at him, then grinned at the affronted (and imaginative; Marek wasn't sure one could do things like that with a dog) outburst this caused. He got dressed to set an example.

LeLouch raised a highly-relaxed-but-trying-not-to-be eyebrow at him.

"Food," Marek explained. Or maybe that was a clarification? Who knew.

Mmm, citrus tinted thought processes.

"Food," LeLouch said with a nod. He switched what side of his mouth the _khalroe_ cigarette was on (because apparently it mattered), untangled his trousers from his face and got dressed, if a little unsteadily.

Marek allowed himself a smirk, at that.


	8. Morbid Curiosity

**Author note:** *tries to work out if she has anything she wants to say beyond commenting on the need for sleep* Nope. Apparently not. I wish everyone a pleasant morning/afternoon/evening/timezone-of-their-choice! On with the showwww~

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 15,819

* * *

**Chapter Eight – Morbid Curiosity**

John was smirking, as Marek knew he would be (bastard could be smug about _anything_), when he and LeLouch emerged, ruffled, slightly flushed and a little bit sweaty. The smirk dropped once the air in the room had been given a chance to circulate, though. Sniff. John's eyes narrowed at LeLouch. "_Khalroe_ or _hebbyr_?"

LeLouch blinked. "_Khalroe_. How'd you—"

"Talented like that." The smirk made a return, though its effect was marred to say the least by John popping a forkful or noodles and gunk into his mouth.

Marek snorted. "Any left for us?"

"He said we should eat it all without you," Gray murmured, seemingly in a world of his own. A world that was centred around the tray of Ndovn on his lap; that being where his gaze was.

The three time agents in the room paused to look at him. Or to look at the top of his head, anyway.

Gray blinked up, all of sudden aware of the fact that, yes, he'd spoken up – offered an opinion, almost, which was something Marek and John had not witnessed thus far – but also that he was the centre of attention. His shoulders hunched and his eyes dropped.

"Yeah, I did say that," said John, returning his attention, if a little more bemused than before, to Marek and LeLouch.

Marek's brows rose a smidge.

"But we didn't," John continued, slightly defensively, and was that an attempt at innocence? It could very well have been. (Stranger things have happened at sea, or in space.) Sat beside him on the sofa, Gray started to eat again.

Marek said, in almost perfect imitation of John, "Yippee skippee."

John choked laughter on his mouthful of half-chewed food.

"Where is it all, then?" asked LeLouch.

"Stasis cupboard," said John, once he could breathe again.

LeLouch headed over to the small kitchenette and began pulling the mixed up containers of takeout from the small stasis cupboard. Stasis cupboards were a neat little trick of an invention, combining both refrigerator and time machine. Sort of. If you read the manual correctly. (A lot of things on a lot of worlds have gone wrong because of people not reading the manual correctly, or misinterpreting its sometimes needlessly complex or insultingly simple diagrams. Things likely to go wrong include cooked dinners, sexual relations, marriages, wars… Nothing and no one in the universe is safe from the menace that is a person who thinks they know more than the manual does. _No one_.)

Marek, meanwhile, chose not to help LeLouch, and decided to lean on the curved arm of the sofa beside John. John twirled his tongue around a forkful of noodles and swallowed the lot. If it was possible for a man to look at luxurious ease whilst devouring simple, greasy takeout and lounging on a ratty sofa…

"Better now?" John lightly inquired, twirling another fork-load of noodles and fried sludge before raising his eyes to meet Marek's.

Marek's lips, a little red and swollen around the edges, twitched. "Yes."

"Oh good." Twirl, twirl. Snigger.

Marek sighed.

The moment was interrupted (though perhaps it had already ended) when LeLouch returned with two… _slightly_ steaming containers which contained (being containers, by definition I'm not entirely sure what else they could do, but today, to Marek Takashi and Alphonse LeLouch, they contained) a mix of noodles, sauce and delicate, crispy sides lost amongst the savoury jumble. LeLouch handed one to Marek before settling into the ratty armchair that was placed opposite the even rattier sofa on which Marek, John and Gray sat.

Gray finished his tray of Ndovn and paused. There was a distinct difference, John noted, between Gray simply being still, simply not moving, and the tense stillness that meant he was waiting for orders.

But they were orders that would never come, John would make sure of that.

"Do you want anymore?" As John asked, Marek pushed off the arm of the sofa and went to perch next to LeLouch.

Gray's breath caught.

"If you want some more, if you're still hungry… Are you still hungry?"

"Yes," murmured Gray, eyes flicking to the tray on John's lap, then up to meet John's cool, blue-grey gaze.

"So you want some more?"

"Y… yes."

"Then," said John, mild amusement twinkling, "why don't you go and help yourself? White cupboard on the left." He nodded to the stasis cupboard, where the remains of the takeaway – it's a well known fact that there is always too much food to eat in one go, when you've received the takeaway you ordered; that fact doesn't stop you from eating it all in one go, but it's still a valid observation – were.

Gray's fingers twitched and he stood, after several moments of tense deliberation, empty tray in hand, and went to the stasis cupboard.

John watched Gray's back, during this. Progress was progress, it couldn't be denied.

* * *

After splitting up the cargo from Da'Denn, and steering LeLouch quite firmly away from Gray, John and Marek stayed on the Merry Month of Mae space station for several weeks, and it was during one of those weeks, when LeLouch was out drinking, Marek had commandeered the man's bed to take apart tech from the looted Da'Denn cargo haul, and John was steadily and happily depleting LeLouch's (previously) hidden alcohol and drug stash... It was then that Gray blinked out of his mostly unthinking, unblinking, unmoving stupor, clambered off the bed in the spare room and slid out into the living area to where John was flopped on the ratty tatty sofa, humming to himself. And possibly the ceiling, but the ceiling didn't care for it.

Gray swallowed around an unexpected dry lump in his throat. "John?"

The voice startled John. And not many things did, these days, so that was saying something. Hadn't been expecting _that_ voice. Not here. Not now. Not yet. He wriggled around on the lumpy cushions, and his expression fell so visibly when his eyes landed on Gray that the young man flinched back a step.

John... didn't say anything. Didn't speak until he'd wriggled back the way he'd come. "Hey, kid."

"I want to ask you something." And it was a want, actually. One of the things that had kept Gray going and now, improbably, with this strange, reckless man, he had his chance to do something about it.

John grunted. Took another pull of whatever it was he was smoking. "Go on, then."

Gray's nose wrinkled at the smell. It rang a few bells, whatever the stuff was, and not nice, twinkly Christmas ones. He started to speak, and all that came out was a hitching breath.

John turned to look at him again, dilated pupils nearly hiding the strange grey blue of his eyes. "What?"

Gray tried to breath. It didn't work so well. "Tell me about my brother?"

This time it was apparently John's turn not to breathe. He stared at Gray for several long, tense moments. Then his eyes closed in a slow blink and he looked back up at the ceiling, without saying anything.

Gray waited, heart pounding unevenly in his ears.

"You want to know about your brother," John asked of the ceiling.

Gray nodded. Paused. "Yes."

John sighed. He couldn't work out if he was too much out of his head, or not enough, for this... but as fate would have it, he didn't need to ponder long.

LeLouch stumbled through the door (he opened it first, honest) clutching at a bloody nose and grinning his usually quite handsome face off. "You'll never guess," he said. Though it came out as something incomprehensible along the lines of "Youb'll ndeber guesth".

Gray's gaze jerked over to LeLouch and froze there, transfixed by the blood and LeLouch's generally roughed up appearance. John's attention switch was a little more languid and relaxed. And about as high as a satellite, but never mind that.

"Mind repeating that?" he inquired, as lightly and as mildly as you like.

"Mnph." LeLouch swallowed. Snorted. Spat blood and.. something quite unidentifiable into his palm. "You. Will never guess."

"Oh," said John. "Well, that settles it then." He went back to staring at the ceiling again and took another pull of his roll-up.

LeLouch rolled his eyes, and then winced. He crossed over to the sink and rinsed his mouth out. "Such interest in your fellow man. Where's your joy in life? Your optimism, your curiosity?"

Pull, hum, puff. John rolled his head to the side to look at LeLouch's back. "It opted out."

LeLouch rinsed his mouth out again, and turned to find Gray staring at his still bloodied hand. The hand got wiggled to catch Gray's attention. Well. A different part of it, anyway. "Yeah?" said LeLouch. "What?"

John glanced at Gray, too. Pull, puff, hum. Gray shook his head sharply, eyes dropping. He retreated a little and folded to his knees beside the sofa John was on, slipping back inside his mind as the words of the older men swirled above him.

Across the room, Marek stuck his head out into the living area. Blinked at the state LeLouch was in.

"Marek!" LeLouch effused, catching sight of him. "Hey, you'll never guess what happened..."

Marek considered the man in an almost uncomfortably impassive manner for several seconds before withdrawing his head from the living area and shutting the door.

LeLouch's shoulders slumped a little as a pout crinkled his lips.

John sighed, finishing his cigarette of mind bending (mind altering? mind twisting? ... mind ker-fuffling?) substance and stubbing it out. "Okay," he told LeLouch, tone oozing lazy patience. "I've got a few minutes. Tell me everything you know."

LeLouch squinted at him. Then grinned again. "I got beat up by a giant cat-man!"

John eyed him. "I think I like you better when you're not around," he said after several moments, reaching for another roll-up.


	9. Cat and Mouse

**Author note:** There may be no chapter tomorrow night, as I am going to be away from my laptop for over a day (le gasp!)... Will try to make it up later. Try being the operative word. (Also, biiig big love to Monica for lending me one of her characters for today's chapter!)

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 18,026

* * *

**Chapter Nine – Cat and Mouse**

John eyed LeLouch in as severe a manner as he could manage, with what was currently going through his veins, and reached for another cigarette. "I think I like you better when you're not around," he absently mused.

"No, but really," LeLouch continued. "Waaay over six foot. Tail. Ears." He mimed each in turn. "Punch like the backside of a stray hover-car. The whole shebang."

"I'll take your word for it?"

LeLouch muttered something in some quite possibly long dead tongue. Probably a curse. (Time Agents tended to pick and chose swearwords like they did their outfits. Lot of uses for imaginative curses in that job.)

"Okay," John said again. "Go from the dubious beginning? I get the feeling this cat-man of yours isn't the least of it."

And so LeLouch explained. How he had gone to the _Blue Butterfly_, a club somewhere on the fourth level of the space station, to see how the place had changed. Last time he'd been there... well, that was a _long_ time ago. So he'd been curious. And hankering for a drink. And he'd found Kara there, working behind the bar. She'd been lovely and charming and he probably should have known better not to judge by appearances, with regard to drinking contests.

But he had, and _boy_, had he lost in a extremely spectacular manner... and then he had made the mistake of hitting on that delightfully smug bottle-blonde behind the bar. And gotten himself bruised by the bouncer. Who appeared to be half cat. Which was interesting, sure, but a little distracting when one was trying to contend with two rather powerful fists only to have a highly prehensile tail sneak in from nowhere.

LeLouch had thought it terribly unfair, at the time.

Meanwhile, John's eyebrows had risen so far in the course of LeLouch's explanation that they were getting overly friendly with his hairline. "The hell were you drinking?"

"Uh. You heard of Poffersi?"

John blinked. "Oh, you _z'ni kolatg_... "

LeLouch grinned. "That's a yes, then."

"You're gonna wish you were dead later on, mate."

A chuckle from LeLouch.

"Especially when you realise it's been making you see violent cat-people. I mean, what, most people go with pink elephants? For preference? Or nostalgia or something? Maybe it's retro. Bless you, Alphonse. Bless you."

LeLouch's grin dropped like a stone. A very heavy stone in a river of alcohol befuddled-ness. "That guy was real."

John smiled up at the ceiling, eyes closing yet again. "If you say so."

LeLouch's comeback – and believe him, it would have been a doozy – was rather interrupted by a knock on the door. He glanced over at it, Gray peeked from around the sofa, Marek stuck his head out of the bedroom again and John took another pull of his roll-up, left hand settled over the gun at his hip. Tiny jerk of a nod as pale green smoke, almost chartreuse, but a little too faint and wispy for that, plumed above his head.

LeLouch flopped down, dabbing his sleeve at his still dribbling nose. Marek went to open the door. And got purred at. The pleased purr being not entirely what Marek had been expecting, his eyelids fluttered in surprise before he swept his gaze over the man leaning in the doorway. Same height as him. (Which was _tall_.) Dressed mostly in black. Knee-high boots, tight trousers, a long sleeved shirt with a wide neck that seemed to be caught somewhere between teasingly small and comfortably loose. Studded belt and piercings. Collar with a small silver bell. Black hair down past his shoulders and silvery eyes. Marek quirked an eyebrow, as the man swept his eyes over him in return.

Then the man cocked his head to the side and drawled, with a boredom that could have matched and quite possibly surpassed John's, "Is there a douche by the name of—"

"Cat-man!" LeLouch yelled, pointing an accusatory finger when Marek moved slightly to one side and leaned on the wall, allowing LeLouch to see the newcomer.

The man's brows slid up. "Ah. Yes. There he is."

John contented himself with his cigarette and watched the floor show.

A black tail appeared from behind the man, the end of it curled around what appeared to be LeLouch's wallet.

_Well then_, thought John. Pull, puff, puff.

The man waggled the wallet, after darting another thoughtful glance at Marek. "Cat got your cash, Louchie."

LeLouch caught the fold of... it wasn't leather, no. Close enough. He caught the fold of leather-ish when the man's tail tossed it over to him and thumbed through it.

"It's all there," the man said, and one brow lowered as his eyes flicked around the room, sliding along John for a moment or two before he returned his attention (mostly) to LeLouch. It darted to Gray, though, when the boy peeked out from his place behind the sofa's arm. The fur along his tail bristled as his gaze met the dulled, not-quite-right hazel of Gray's. A soft growl escaped the man's lips, audible only to Marek.

Gray looked away, shrinking back. John draped an arm backwards over the end of the sofa to squeeze the young man's shoulder, and the man in the doorway frowned slightly, eyes darkening.

"Anything else we can do for you," Marek murmured, pausing questioningly for a name, "...?"

"Mamoru," said Mamoru, tail curling around his right thigh as he looked away from where Gray had been. His eyes carried a warning – which had one of Marek's brows quirking again, this time more imperceptibly than before – but it disappeared as the man nodded to LeLouch's sprawled form. Conversationally, "Do you think LeLouse will stop bleeding anytime soon, or did I actually break his nose?"

The corner of Marek's mouth twitched, John chuckled, and LeLouch peered at his bloodied sleeve, gaze both thoughtful and stormy.

Marek, in turn, peered at LeLouch. Looked back at Mamoru. "It would appear to be broken. Congratulations."

Mamoru loosed a sigh, pushed off the doorframe and pulled out a handful of medical supplies from his trouser pockets. A slim nose splint. A spray that would stop the bleeding. A gel to deal with any swelling. All purpose stuff (except for the nose splint).

Marek accepted the handful with a questioning expression.

"Not the first time I've broken someone's nose," Mamoru explained, shrugging. "Won't be the last. Also, I was bidden."

"Ah," said Marek, the corner of his mouth twitching up again.

"Any particular reason we should trust you?" LeLouch called from his place on the armchair. Because _he_ was the one who had gotten punched, thank you very much. He was allowed to be wary. And cranky.

Marek gave in and let himself be amused. Seeing LeLouch get taken down a peg or three was always fun. He, John and Gray would most likely suffer for it later… but for the moment, Marek was amused

"I'm trying to help, and I'm less stupid than you? Also," the tailed man in the doorway said again, with a nod in John's direction, "Bonaparte over there looks so high he probably couldn't tie his own shoes—"

John felt his eyebrows rise a little but managed to turn it into a leer. Of sorts. He also resisted the urge to check his feet, because he _knew_ he was wearing boots, damnit. Or, at least, he was pretty darn sure. Not many recognised the jacket (not many, in this instance, meaning no one) and he was intrigued.

"—let alone tend to you," Mamoru continued telling LeLouch, "and ol' flinchy over there behind the sofa doesn't seem any better off."

The silence stretched for a second or two before John took a thoughtful pull of his roll-up and said, "Bonaparte was a bit of a twat, you know? War this and stinky cheese that… Real self obsessed type."

"Ooh," cooed Marek, tone near enough dripping with sarcasm even as his gaze didn't stray from Mamoru. "I wonder what that could have been like. No, really."

Another purr rumbled low in Mamoru's chest, almost a laugh.

"Anything _else_ we can do for you or vice verse?" Marek asked, sliding his gaze up and down the man again.

Mamoru's tail uncurled from around his leg. Twitched and paused in mid-air. "Don't trust him," Mamoru murmured, pitching his voice so only Marek would hear. "He's dangerous."

"I'll take that as a no," Marek said, quirking a full smile. As if Mamoru had said nothing.

Mamoru's silver eyes flickered before he smiled back. The end of his tail brushed against Marek's leg, an inconspicuous little touch, as he pushed back off from the doorframe again, turned away and left, tail and hips swaying.

Marek tilted his head after him. Thoughtful little noise.

John snorted. "Keep it in your pouch, lieutenant."

Marek turned around and shut the door. "Captain John Hart telling someone to restrain themselves. Never thought I'd see the day."

John blew a cloud of smoke in Marek's direction and grinned.

* * *

Over the coming days and weeks, waiting to hear from the Agency, John found a new way to pass the time. That was the problem with being at the Agency's beck and call. They could call for you at any moment (and sometimes at all of them, such was the nature of the establishment), so you had to be ready. Ready to pack up and 'port off to wherever or whenever they wanted you.

John taught Gray things, slowly coaxing the boy that he had been out from underneath the years of torture that hunched his shoulders and dogged his step. It was slow progress. _Very_ slow. But worth it for the day Gray walked out of the spare room without letting his gaze drop.

Unfortunately, LeLouch was the only one there to witness it. He tilted his head. "Morning, Gray."

Gray... did something that was somewhere between a twitch and a flinch. Startled little movement. Then he relaxed, looking over at LeLouch. Hadn't seen him there on the sofa. "Good morning."

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Ooh-kay." LeLouch opened his newspaper back up. "Well." Rustle, rustle. "John's out right now, or right then..." He paused to squint. "But he'll be back in a little while. Probably. Possibly he's back ten minutes ago. You never know."

"Where's Marek?"

"Having a turn on the double in my room."

LeLouch watched Gray over the top of his newspaper. Rustle. The newspaper flickered onto the next set of topics and he sighed. Boring, boring, boring. Sure, the thing was from three weeks in the future, and the knowledge that the stock in certain areas (certain areas he'd gone back in time to invest in, after getting the newspaper, of course) was about to skyrocket was useful and good for his purse strings and all... But he was bored.

Gray went to get something to eat, some sort of leftover takeaway, from the stasis cupboard, and LeLouch continued to watch. Aware of the attention, Gray turned once he'd eaten a few forkfuls. "Yes?"

Always simple words and phrasing, and always like he had to think about them. It was cute, in a way. LeLouch tilted his head the other way, setting the newspaper down. "I'm curious."

Gray ate a bit more, standing, not sitting, even though the armchair was free.

"Want to know what I'm curious about?"

Gray's fork paused. That was a question, and as such it merited an answer. He swallowed his mouthful. "No."

"Well, I'm going to tell you anyway."

Gray scraped out the last few bits of fried massle (a white sort of not-quite-potato with a red, dry husk that you peeled off before cooking) from the takeaway container. Or maybe it wasn't takeaway. Maybe it was something John had made and had put into a takeout container because it was a safer bet than LeLouch's plates. Gray didn't know.

"I'm curious about _you_."

Gray put the container away where Marek had shown him ones like it went. He didn't know a lot of things, he knew he didn't know... but he knew when LeLouch stood, even without turning around to see.

He didn't move when LeLouch came over to stand beside him. Didn't look at him, either. The countertop appeared to have Gray's full attention.

LeLouch curled a hand lightly around the crook of Gray's nearest elbow. "They won't talk about you, the other two."

Gray closed his eyes in a long, slow blink.

LeLouch turned to rest his hip on the edge of the counter, swapping which hand was touching Gray. He rubbed gently with the pad of his thumb, nail catching a little on the material of Gray's shirtsleeve. "Would you tell me?"

His voice almost sounded like John's, when John was trying to coax Gray into doing something. Soft and gentle, but with an underlying firmness.

Gray's next blink was longer; slower.

"I..."

LeLouch's hand slid up, slowly, always slowly, to Gray's shoulder and gave a light knead.

Gray thought his knees might buckle. But they didn't. He lifted his gaze to meet LeLouch's.

"Hm?" murmured LeLouch.

The tightening of Gray's muscles under his hand was LeLouch's only warning, and it wasn't much of one at that.


	10. Curiosity is a Killer

**Author note:** Had a great night out yesterday, and finally slept for more than four hours. Woo! And I'm just over two fifths of the way toward completing NaNo. More woo! *goes to get ready for early start tomorrow* Big love to Monica and Ruth for letting me bounce ideas at them.

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 20,001

* * *

**Chapter Ten – Curiosity is a Killer**

The tightening of Gray's muscles under his hand was LeLouch's only warning, and it wasn't much of one at that. One moment Gray seemed to be relaxing, about to spill, and the next LeLouch's nose was caving backwards into his face with a sickening crunch.

Again.

Not taking kindly to being head-butted, LeLouch ducked backwards with a shout – though he had no idea _what_ it was, exactly, that he shouted. General "I only just sorted this nose out" rage, perhaps – and lashed out at Gray once he had room enough to manoeuvre. Gray slammed into the countertop at the force LeLouch used.

It was at that moment, when LeLouch half circled Gray, blood oozing down his face and turning into spittle where it touched his lips and got caught up in his harsh breaths, and when Gray was clinging to the counter and trying to stay standing (and mostly succeeding) that Marek burst into the room, gun in hand, wearing only an open shirt and boxers.

"What—"

Gray whimpered and his arms gave out. Marek rushed over, shoving his gun into the waistband of his boxers, twitching a little as the cold metal pressed to his stomach.

"The hell did you _do_?"

"_Me_?" LeLouch repeated, incredulous. "Try your little cobra over there! Fuck!"

Marek's gun slipped down a little as he crouched over Gray. Which earned something closer to a flinch than a twitch. _Gah_. Cold metal in places there shouldn't (often) be cold metal. Goosebumps flared up Marek's spine. "Gray?"

The boy hunched and curled up. Or he tried to, anyway. Marek wasn't letting him. He snivelled, hand clutched to his reddening cheek.

Marek looked up at LeLouch. "Tell me what happened."

"I wasn't—"

"Lu, I don't give a flying fuck what you were or weren't! Tell me what happened, or tell John when he gets back."

_That_ stopped LeLouch in his tracks. He'd seen Hart lose it over smaller things. This, though? Oh, boy... "I was just talking to him, that's rutting all." LeLouch grabbed a towel, wet it in the sink and dabbed it at his face and neck as Gray tried to flinch away from them both.

Again, Marek didn't let him.

"Just talking," Marek repeated, darkening gaze glancing up at LeLouch. "You? There's no such thing, with _you_, is there?"

LeLouch huffed, then swore at his nose and, in turn, at Gray.

"Get out," said Marek. He was trying to concentrate. LeLouch was only messing things up.

"Marek—"

"Out! Go!"

LeLouch got halfway across the room, intent on slamming his door shut behind him as forcefully as he could manage, when John made his entrance.

With a sword.

Everyone blinked at him. He blinked back at them. Then he blinked again and swore under his breath in a language that hadn't, technically, been invented yet. "Bloody hell, I leave you lot alone for five minutes..."

LeLouch carried on to his room, expression for the most part, and barring the blood, blank.

John dumped his stuff on the sofa. A kitbag that looked almost fortified. Gun belt with what looked to be some sort of pistol in each holster (and not the pistols he'd left with, either). He shrugged out of the beaten leather coat he wore and came over to Marek and Gray. Crouched down.

"Hey, kid. How's tricks?"

Gray stopped snivelling. Maybe it was the oddness of the question or maybe he'd run out snivel. It was hard to tell.

"What happened?" John murmured to Marek.

Marek very nearly rolled his eyes. "Lu tried to be polite, as only he knows how."

John couldn't help a flash of anger, there. But he controlled it. Calmed it down. Mildly said, "Ah."

"Yeah."

John was silent for a few moments before murmuring, "Sort him out," and starting to stand again.

"John," said Marek, quite sure he knew where this was going and quite _quite_ sure he wanted nothing to do with it.

But since when had 'want' had anything to do with what happened to Marek on a day to day basis?

"Sort. Him. Out. Clean him up. Start today's lesson. Do whatever, just keep him out of the way."

Marek sighed. "Come on, Gray."

Gray stared up at John. "What are you going to do?"

John blinked down at him. Hadn't exactly been expecting the question, or any question for that matter. "I'm going to go explain things to LeLouch," he said.

Gray didn't blink. Just kept looking.

"John..."

"Won't be long," John said cheerily, ignoring the tone Marek's voice had taken. "Well. Hopefully I won't be long."

Gray watched him straighten all the way and then walk across the room. Didn't glance away until John had disappeared into LeLouch's room and the door had shut. Then he looked up at Marek.

Marek looked away. Something in those hazel eyes still wasn't right and probably never would be.

"Is he going to hurt him?" Gray asked, voice barely a murmur.

"Probably," Marek told the edge of the counter in front of him.

"Good."

* * *

"Hart, look—"

"Don't touch the kid, that was all we said. So difficult to understand?"

LeLouch glared. His nose appeared to have stop bleeding for the time being. "I _didn't_ touch him."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe." John started to circle the bed toward LeLouch.

LeLouch didn't back away, though he'd have rather liked to. No telling where John had gone, how long he'd been gone and what mood he was in now. Anything could happen. "We were just talking."

"Just?" John closed the space between them so they were nose to... chin. What with LeLouch being the taller of the two. But in terms of held back, "Gee, I could sure blow a hole in this space station right where you're standing" anger, John appeared to have the higher ground.

LeLouch rolled his eyes. "Just," he said, quite firmly.

"And...just talking ends up with you getting a bloodied nose? Funny how that keeps on happening."

"_John_."

"Alphonse?"

"I put a hand on his shoulder. Tried to be comforting. That was all."

"Ah, so you _did_ touch him?"

LeLouch rolled his eyes again. "Yes, I touched him."

"Good," said John, waning a smile that set LeLouch's teeth on edge. "That's all I wanted to know."

LeLouch managed half a breath before John punched him.

* * *

"Good," murmured Gray, a strange something – something Marek trusted in no particular way – lighting up his eyes.

Marek's eyelids flickered. "Good?" he repeated, questioning even as... what was his name? The bouncer. The cat-man who'd worked LeLouch over. Mamoru! That was it. Even as Mamoru's quiet warnings played themselves over and over inside his head.

_Don't trust him. He's dangerous._

Gray didn't respond.

Right, thought Marek. Of course. "Okay," he said after a few moments. "Come on. Get up. Captain Hart—" Marek bit out the words. That damned title. And all of a sudden John's voice was in his head, slightly slurred, from not long after they had been partnered by Agency high-ups:

"_When I call myself a Time Agent it isn't just some poncy, self-assumed title meant to impress, you know._" And he'd sniffed, a disdainful little action. "_That's where the 'captain' comes in._"

Marek's lips twitched as he looked down at Gray. "Captain Hart wants you cleaned up and sorted out. So cleaned up and sorted out it is."

Not that that's likely to happen overnight, Marek did _not_ say. It was hardly likely to happen at all.

Gray stood with Marek's help. That is to say, Marek moved to help the boy stand up, and stand up Gray did. There just wasn't necessarily a link between the two.

In the bathroom, Gray stood still as Marek pulled out the med-kit they brought from the shuttle and started to dab at the forming bruise on the side of Gray's face.

Gray kept looking at him during this. Trying to get eye contact. He seemed curious, if anything.

Marek didn't trust it. Didn't trust it at all.

* * *

LeLouch fought back, of course. John wouldn't have expected anything to the contrary. But there's expecting, and then there's allowing. And John didn't allow for much.

It took a while, longer than John would have thought (LeLouch had obviously gotten some new tricks somewhere along the line... or somewhen) but John finally got LeLouch on his front, arms wrenched high up behind his back with one hand while his other played cheerful, twitching hell with the nerves at the base of the taller man's spine.

"Do you give in?" John said, happily as you like. (LeLouch didn't like.) But he was a bit out of breath, it had to be said.

LeLouch was worse off. And he swore at John with what breath he had left.

John made a "tch" sound. Poke, poke, twist.

LeLouch grunted and then yelped as he lost feeling in his right leg while his left leg... made itself _very _ known. Imagine pins and needles whilst being plugged into the mains. And add a scouring pad onto that. "What. Exactly. Am I meant to be giving into here?"

John paused. "Hm."

LeLouch shuddered as John shifted both hands to hold LeLouch's arms steady.

"I'm not entirely sure, you know."

"I feel so comforted."

John grinned at the back of LeLouch's head, and LeLouch swore he could feel it. His skin prickled unevenly.

"You done now?"

John glanced around. Made a thoughtful noise or two, followed by a satisfied hum. "Yeah, I think so."

LeLouch waited for him to let go. But John didn't. Not just let. He leant down to put his mouth by LeLouch's ear, nuzzling in an almost tender manner through LeLouch's crop of blonde hair.

"I think you know what I'm about to say. Or at least, you know the gist of it. But I'm just going to go right ahead and put it all into words so everything's clear."

LeLouch kept quiet. Uncharacteristically so.

"If you touch him again, I will kill you. If you talk to him in any way that is not harmless – and I mean _harmless_ – chit-chat, I will kill you. Breathe at him the wrong way, I'll—"

"Kill me?"

"Got it in one." John nuzzled a bit more. LeLouch stared at the cheap carpet under his face. "You'd be surprised at what you can live through, Lu," John continued. "Especially when I'm the one putting you through it."

"Until you kill me, that is?"

"Uh-huh."

"Right. Had to be clear."

John hummed his satisfaction again, and was about to let go of LeLouch (honest) when Marek opened the door and leant in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest and one ankle tucked over the other. He raised an eyebrow at the pair on the floor.

Both men, along the course of knowing Marek Takashi, and learned to be distrustful of that eyebrow.

"Gray's settled," Marek said. "Reading over the Trade syllabet. Anything else you want, Captain?"

John opened his mouth, but found he had nothing much to say. So he closed his mouth and shook his head.

Marek's eyebrow lowered. "Right." He shut the door behind him as he left.

John looked back down at LeLouch. Well. At the back of LeLouch's head.

"You going to let me up now?"

"I'm considering it."

"Consider faster," muttered LeLouch. "I can't feel my legs."

"Ah, LeLouch, my darling," John said, straightening back up again, "like a certain fictional damsel from times gone by, you mistake me for someone who actually gives a damn."

LeLouch grunted a laugh. John let him up and backed away a sensible distance. LeLouch tottered to the feet he could no longer feel and eyed John. John grinned; LeLouch shook his head.

And that was that.


	11. We All Fall Down

**Author note:** Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! You guys are awesome. And speaking of awesome things (or possibly it's an awesome thing) the Plot's receiving a big ol' kickstart today! All downhill from here, folks. All downhill from here. (Maybe I should invest in a sled for the rest of November?)

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 22,016

* * *

**Chapter Eleven – We All Fall Down**

Marek ran through the crowded corridors of the space station, heart hammering and adrenaline lending a primal glitter to all that he ducked past, weaved around or jumped over. Finally he reached the private docking port where he and John had secured the ship a month or two earlier.

"Cancel it!"

John's fingers paused on the airlock controls, which he'd been programming.

"Cancel it," Marek panted. "Don't bother. Stop."

"I have?" John gave his frown a split-second to form before he aimed it at Marek. "Oi, Lieutenant Road-runner. Air in, explanation out."

"Just—" Marek coughed and forced air into his lungs. And out again. And managed to relax a smidge. "Just got a broadcast from Major Tulsen, back at headquarters. Trouble."

"Marek, stop beating about the—"

"Agency's going down."

Pause. And then... "_What_?"

Marek gulped in another breath and decided that instead of trying to give a breathless explanation, which John would only pick at and make all the more breathless, he would just show John the damned message.

He flipped open his wrist strap as John paced, and a few beeps later, Major Tulsen's portly, bearded face – made grainy and pale blue by the hologram technology – flickered into existence between John and Marek, projected from Marek's vortex manipulator.

"Haven't got much time, so I don't know how many this'll reach. Everything's closing off faster than a Glacyod's sphincter." The major paused. "Weird things, they tighten up when you shoot them?" He paused again and shook off the errant thought (though some of the Agents who'd known him in the past/present/future would have argued that that was most of his head, and shaking one's own head off is hardly to be advised). "Anyway. Everything's closing off and closing down and Management all seem to have vanished. And so has their stationery. Opportunistic bastards."

John snorted.

"The place is chaos. Don't bother coming back. Not till things have cooled off, and Jezeq's munchin only knows how long that'll take. Best not to bother, I know the moment I'm off this rock—"

The hologram of Major Tulsen froze mid-sentence.

"That's all there was," Marek murmured, closing it down.

John stared at the spot where the hologram had been. Then he blinked the blankness away and frowned up at Marek.

"Why the hell didn't you just send me this?" he asked. Well. He thought he was asked. Marek knew it was a demand.

"What," said Marek, eyebrow quirking, "and miss my chance for a dramatic entrance?" He scowled a little, a trait picked up from John. "I wasn't exactly thinking straight, _Captain_, and if we're going to bicker about not thinking straight—"

John grunted. Marek shut up. John ran his hands through his hair and paced in a circle. "Fuck."

"My sentiments exactly..."

The pair of them were interrupted from their brooding silence by a faint beep from John's wrist strap. Incoming broadcast. John brought it up. And blinked at the person who flickered into existence several feet from him.

"Captain Denovan," he murmured, brows rising, "this is a surprise."

The woman had a crop of short hair (hard to tell what colour, when the hologram was composed of various shades of blue), wore a multi-pocketed tunic over tight trousers and long sleeved jersey, and there was a pair of well worn leather combat boots from some era or another buckled around her feet and calves. There was also a gun-belt buckled around her waist, with... what looked to be a knife sheath and also a screwdriver sheath attached beside the gun holsters, and she had a long white scar running down her right cheek.

The woman's brows rose right back at John. "That's Director Denovan to you, Hastern."

"Hart," John said, mildly enough.

Lindsa Denovan, once second-lieutenant, once lieutenant, once captain, once partner of a young, reckless Time Agent by the name of Jonathan Holster, rolled her eyes. The man hadn't changed. Or he had, and that was the problem. Always the names...

"Then that's Director Denovan to you, _Hart_. Can I get on with this now?"

John dipped into a half-arsed bow and managed not to snigger. "By my guest, Director. Be my guest."

"You got Tulsen's broadcast, I take it?"

"Just now, yeah." John grinned a little. "Where does that put you and your little dominion, Director Denovan?"

Lindsa allowed herself a glare. "Safe, hopefully. We got wind of the trouble several weeks back. Been trying to shut off all connections and stockpile resources since then."

"The other Agency outposts?"

"Taken apart by opportunistic high-ups, take _over_ by opportunistic high-ups or just plan missing."

"Missing?" asked Marek.

The woman in the hologram glanced at him. "Missing," she repeated. "Either they've gone underground or they've been made never to exist."

"Ah."

After a bit of a curious frown in Marek's general direction (hologram's were never entirely accurate), Lindsa returned her attention to John.

John regarded her, his cool eyed calculation translating even through the holographic technology and over Deity knows how many light-years. It made Lindsa's lips twitch even as she stood in front of one of the Medusa Cascade station's communication terminals.

"And what's this got to do with us, Director Denovan?"

"Who's with you?"

John rolled his eyes. "Get to the point, would you, Lindsa? What do you want?"

A few moments of slightly crackling silence passed.

"I need more people here," Lindsa said. "People who I can trust."

John's brows went up a bit. "And I fall into that category now, do I?"

"For the time being, yes, you do. Necessity demands it.,"

Marek chuckled, and Lindsa glanced at him. "And you are?"

"Lieutenant Marek Takashi, ma'am."

John bit his lower lip and managed not to snigger. That would have been quite undignified, you see. Ahem.

"Director," said Lindsa, the temperature of her voice dropping all of a sudden.

Marek seemed surprised. John was just plain amused.

"Pardon?" said Marek.

"Director, not ma'am. Or 'sir', if you can't manage three syllables."

She and Hart knew each other? Marek could believe that. "My apologies, Director."

"There's the four of us," John said, finally answering Lindsa's original question. "Me, Marek and Alphonse LeLouch."

Lindsa's eyes narrowed. "You can vouch for him, then? For them?"

"I can," said John, at the same time as Marek said, "We can."

There was a brief exchange of looks before the two men returned their attentions to the woman in the hologram. She looked slightly amused. But only slightly.

"Well, make arrangements for your extra, then I'll get the three of you—"

"No."

Lindsa raised an eyebrow. "No, Captain?"

"The extra comes with," said John. "I'll work for you, Lindsa. I'll help with whatever little projects you're trying to run over there, but the extra gets room and board, no questions answered."

"Don't you mean 'no questions asked'?"

"Well, you're asking one now, so no."

Lindsa begrudgingly grunted a laugh, then considered John for a long moment.

John waited.

"Fine," said Lindsa.

"Thank you." John inclined his head in an almost bow.

Marek watched the two of them with a sort of detached curiosity.

"Oh," said John. "We've got a ship, too. Small one. Almost a shuttle."

"'We' being the three of you plus one?"

"No," Marek interjected. "Just the two of us, this time."

Lindsa eyed them both. "You both own one ship?" The eyeing was just for John, then. "... you're sharing?"

"Hey, I know how to share!"

The looks John got off Marek and Lindsa, then... almost indescribable. (But the author is going to try anyway.) You could certainly tell they'd both been John's partners along the line, such was the fond withering-ness of the expressions they pointed in his general direction.

John stuck his tongue out at them.

"Drunken card game," Marek explained to Lindsa.

"Ah," the woman said. A lot could be explained by drunken card games, especially ones that involved one Captain john Hart (or whatever name he was going by at the time). She herself knew of several historical events that might not have worked out the way they did (or that might have, but nobody would ever know, now) if it weren't for John Hart and his haphazard, sometimes inebriated, often brilliant, always reckless actions and ideas.

"Gather your stuff together in the ship, then. If you can wire in—"

John snorted and rolled his eyes. "That's toddler's work, Linny. Yes," he said, voice oozing sarcastic patience, "I can wire a vortex manipulato into the ship's systems for you to get a complete lock on it."

Lindsa regarded the man coolly." "That was going to be a rhetorical question, you know."

"Was it? How sad."

Lindsa sighed.

John grinned.

Marek... continued to look slowly between the two of them.

"Send me a wave when you're ready, then."

"Will do, Director."

They regarded each other for a moment longer, and then Lindsa flicked John half a smile before cutting the connection.

Marek tongued the inside of his cheek while John closed up his wrist strap (the click of it seemed to drift down the space station's corridor) and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Well then," he said.

"Yeah," murmured Marek. He looked down at his partner and superior officer.

John, aware of the attention, tipped his head back so their gazes met. "You want to?"

"Want to what?" said Marek.

"Pole dance to the _Battle Hymn of the Republic_. What do you _think_?" John's tone took an almost uncharacteristically patient turn. Went a bit softer, too. "Do you want to go and work for our dear Director Denovan and whoever else she's scraped together over there?"

"Over there?" Marek frowned down at John. "What the hell's she director of, anyway, sir?"

"You heard of the Medusa Cascade?"

Marek nodded. "Yeah. Dangerous place."

"Well, she heads the Agency outpost there, monitoring the Rift. Has done for years now."

"Huh," said Marek. He wet his lips and glanced away, brows furrowing ever so slightly. Almost everything the man did was slight. Except for when he was punching you in the face. "I... don't know." Marek looked back at John. "Is this an actual question, or just a politely disguised demand?"

John snorted. "Yes, it's an actual question. No Agency anymore, Marek. Apparently. No hierarchy but that which we make for ourselves."

Marek eyed him. "Did you just quote that last bit from somewhere?"

"It's very possible."

Marek's turn to snort, it would seem. Then to look away again. "I do want to. I think. Maybe."

"Yeah?"

Marek nodded. "Not like I've got anyone besides you and Lu." Pause. Snort. "And isn't that just a charming thought."

"Ah," said John. He looked away, too. "There is that, yeah."

The silence stretched for a while as John paced some more and Marek watched him. Then Marek said, quietly, "What now, sir?"

John's booted feet tapped out an absent rhythm on the floor's grating. "Now... now I carry on with what I was doing, prepping the shuttle, you go tell LeLouch what's happening, and we'll meet up in a few hours back at the apartment."

"I think a shopping trip or two could be wise, before... how are we getting to the Medusa Cascade, anyway?"

"I'll wire my wrist strap into the ship's systems, then Lindsa and her team will lock onto it using the technology they developed to manipulate the Rift... and poof we go."

"Worse than travelling by vortex?"

John shook his head. "Smoother. Way smoother."

Marek made a thoughtful noise.

"Right, new plan. You deal with LeLouch and start packing up at the apartment, and I'll finish prepping the shuttle and deal with Gray."

"Sounds good to me, sir." And it did, rather. If anyone had noticed the way Marek had been avoiding the kid, they hadn't commented. (Well, not avoiding him, per say. Just spending as little time with him as was physically possible. Which was still more than Marek would have liked.)

There was just something about Gray, something wrong, and all of Marek's alarm bells were going off.

* * *

**Author note the second:** Anyone who's read my _last_ NaNoWriMo story _And Then Some_ will recognise Lindsa from there. Anyone who hasn't... well... it's young Jack Harkness and young John Hart getting stuck together for five years, (or two weeks, depending) and I lost the remains of my sanity writing it. Good month, all told. Very good month.


	12. Thick Skulls and Hard Bargains

**Author note:** It's late, yes I know...

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 24,250

* * *

**Chapter Twelve – Thick Skulls and Hard Bargains**

John weaved around the various cargo crates in various states of undress on the living area floor to reach the door to the spare room. He knocked once, then three times. Signature knock, sort of. Or maybe he just felt like it. Whatever the matter, his voice was recognisable to the room's occupant. "Gray?"

Gray flinched in surprise. Hadn't been expecting John back for a lot longer than that. He tucked the electronic book he'd been reading under the pile of the rest, and then opened up the last one John had had him on.

"Come in," he murmured, glancing over at the door.

John slipped inside just as Marek wandered past with an armful of assorted items of clothing, and a few striped socks fell in the taller man's wake. He came over, peered at the book in Gray's lap and said, "How's it going?"

The man always asked that. It had become something of a ritual, and Gray's answer was always the same: "I don't understand."

And John would sit down, as he did now. Lean over the screen of the book to get a closer look. "Which bit?"

Gray pointed. John peered, squinted for several seconds and then went, "Oh, that's simple. Here."

Several explanations later, Gray nodded, as he always did, and John shifted away, as _he_ always did, to let Gray continue through the book.

Only this time, John spoke up after a couple of minutes. "We're leaving."

That would explain the boxes, Gray supposed. He looked up from the book's screen, and John's lips twitched.

"I told you about the people your brother used to work for, before he disappeared? The Agency me, Marek and LeLouch are part of?"

"Yes."

"It's shutting down."

Gray said nothing. Just waited. Waited for things to apply to him, and then he would figure out what to do. Not until then.

"Nothing to say about that?" John asked, propping his chin on a closed fist.

Gray shook his head. Nothing to say yet.

John sighed. "Well, the Agency's shutting down, and we're all going to go and lay low at a friend of mine's place. Sort of. Well, it's sort of a place, and she's sort of a friend."

"She?"

"Yeah," said John, "'she'." He straightened and scrubbed the hand that'd previously been propping his chin up through his hair. "Lindsa Denovan. Known her for years."

Gray made a note of this, somewhere in the back of his mind. He looked away from John just as Marek opened the door and stuck his head into the room.

"Sir?"

John blinked away from Gray. Gray watched the toe of Marek's boot, just about visible in the cracked open doorway.

"Mm?"

"We're just about done out here," said Marek, while LeLouch grumbled about slave labour somewhere behind him.

Gray looked confused, for a moment. What LeLouch and Marek were doing was nothing like slave labour. Surely they knew that, given all that they must have seen?

John glanced at him and asked, voice soft, "Gray?"

Startlement. Gray blinked away from Marek to look across at John.

"You alright?"

He ducked a nod, and... then both he and John returned their attentions to Marek. John to the man's face, Gray to the man's boot.

"What's left?" John asked.

"Sundries and scattered bits and pieces," Marek said, glancing behind him for a nod of agreement (which he got, with a bit of blown kiss) from LeLouch. "Everything important is ready to go."

"Okay." Gray received a glance before John continued, "We'll meet you at the ship when the shopping trip's done, then."

Shopping trip? What shopping trip? Gray tilted his head slightly, still looking at Marek's shoe.

"Right," said Marek, and he pulled his head (and boot) back and shut the door.

John plucked the electronic book out of Gray's lap once they were alone again and gave it a glance over before shutting it and picking up the whole pile. Gray watched with a faint frown as John then stood up and crossed to the door. Poked his head out into the living area and asked, "You got an empty box left?"

Gray heard one being shunted over across the living area's cheap carpet.

"Ta," John said. He brought the box in, shut the door again, and started to pack up Gray's things. Gray watched for a few moments before unfolding himself from the bed and helping, as much as John would let him. The man was protective. Had been so since finding out who Gray was, or who Gray's brother had been. It was strange, but not horrible. Possibly it was even nice, only Gray couldn't remember what nice felt like, so un-horrible would have to do for now.

Once everything was in the box (not like Gray owned much; all that he had were the things given to him by John and Marek, and a few dubious items from LeLouch which John and Marek, after learning of their origin, had subsequently taken away ), John passed Gray his coat and shoes and waited for him to put them on. Then he told Gray to follow and lead the way out of the jumbled apartment.

* * *

John kicked the shopping trip off by stopping at one of the smaller food markets that tended to gather and migrate around the space station's roomier and more ventilated atriums. He glanced sideways (and up, damn the kid for sharing his brother's tall genetics) at Gray. "See anything you fancy?"

Gray flicked his eyes around, shoulders hunching a little bit. It was the open spaces, John thought. Or perhaps it was being given too many choices for him to cope with. Or _maybe_ it was the fear of being confronted by that freaking weird three-headed chicken thing again. Who could say?

"I'll take that as a no, then," John said, and Gray's hazel eyes snapped back to him, a smidge of relief bringing out the green in them. "Come on. We'll have a look around."

Gray nodded, the action almost absent, and he followed John as the older man started to wander between the stalls.

Half an hour of hemming and hawing later, John and Gray found themselves sat at a table, a variety of cartons in front of each. Gray was picking through his, taking titbits from each container and slowly working his way through them all.

John watched with a wry expression, lips slightly quirked while a small frown creased at his eyebrows, and he nibbled at bits and pieces.

Gray glanced up, after a while of this. Looked back down. Swallowed his mouthful. "You usually eat more."

John tipped his head to the side and swung his booted feet up onto the chair beside him, shuffling in his own to make the movement possible. An eyebrow twitched up in Gray's direction. "Do I?"

Glance up. Glance down. Chew and swallow. "Yes."

"You notice things like that?"

"Sometimes," Gray said, lifting his eyes to meet John's gaze.

John plucked a fried bit of something or other out of the closest carton, flicked it up in the air as one would when tossing a coin, and caught it in his mouth. "Are you going to ask me what's wrong?"

Gray's lips quivered for a moment before he said, "Do you want me to?"

"Not particularly."

"Then no, I am not going to ask."

John repeated the plucking, flicking, catching routine and sighed. Then he looked Gray over with a critical eye. "We should get you some new clothes. You've only got the two outfits, and they don't exactly fit."

Gray's brows went up a bit.

"What?" said John. "Speak your mind, already." Amusement twinkled in his eyes. "I can hardly answer your questions if you keep asking them inside your head, now, can I?"

"May I choose them myself? The clothes."

Huh. That was new. Curiosity replaced amusement in John's gaze. "If you've got a preference, then sure."

Gray nodded and went back to eating. John continued to watch him for a while before reaching for the nearest container and steadily emptying it.

* * *

The clothes Gray ended up choosing from the various shops and stalls they walked past... It shouldn't have surprised John, really. Quilted, durable things. Strengthened seams. Highly practical, and wholly similar to the clothes John had seen the surviving colonists on the Boeshane peninsular wearing. He and Jacobyte Hasphane (as the man had been going by, back then, before he left and John's life went to hell) had searched for Gray. They'd searched all over the place, it being one of the things they'd sworn to do when they were trapped in that ghastly paisley apartment on that ghastly spit of a planet for five years.

Five years spent in a locked time loop. Two weeks of damp witnessed through windows they could never open and a doorway they could never pass through... repeated over and over and over again.

Really, it was a wonder John was sane. Well. Sane enough. Sane-ish?

He still twitched at paisley, though, and the claustrophobia was often an issue if he stayed in the same place for more than two weeks. But these things were dealt with as and when they occurred. (Granted, they weren't dealt with all that well, but it was the thought that counted, surely?)

"But if it laces up at the back, don't you need someone there to do it up?" John asked, tilting his head at the jacket-cum-top Gray had picked out.

Gray's hand pauses mid-pet of the quilted material. He flicked his eyes to John.

"I'm not saying you can't have it," John said, almost hastily, as if sensing the rising wariness. "I'm just saying... well... it doesn't make much sense."

A strange something lit up Gray's face, if only for a moment. "And everything so far has, John?"

Startled, John laughed. "Okay, I'll go with that." He twisted his lips at the quilted creation that seemed half blanket, half strait-jacket. "This one, then?"

"Yes."

John gestured to the stall owner, before glancing up at Gray. "Just the one?"

"Two?"

"Two," John told the owner, who started to rummage in the stock piled behind the stall's main table. "Ah, but Gray, there's a very important question still waiting to be asked."

Gray frowned at him.

John looked the stall over with a meaningful eye and then asked, as seriously and as solemnly as he could manage, "Do you want brown, or brown?"

The owner of the stall stood, at that moment, and grumbled something in his native tongue about uppity short men with no idea about good clothing. Who wears red and blue like that? And the _state_ of his clothes... Tatters and stains all over. Tch.

John's head turned away from Gray. "Oh," he drawled, matching the man's language word for word, and even managing the accent with near lazy ease, "because your wares are so much better?"

Startled affront. The man's chest huffed up. "My wares are my own. Hand crafted—"

"Hand?" John picked up a shirt, then flicked it back down to the table in disgust. "More like feet. You expect people to buy this shit?"

The man blinked in confusion, chest deflating somewhat. "Weren't you about to?"

John frowned as if that had nothing to do with this. "Yes."

"Then—"

"What, a free man can't complain as he likes?"

"No, but—"

"The two jackets, and you can throw in one of those quaint little leather necklace thing, no extra charge."

"I'm not just going to—"

"Oh, but you are, and you know it."

Gray looked between the two men. John, calm, slightly amused and quirking an eyebrow, hands resting lightly on his gun holsters, and the stall owner flustered. Strange how suddenly the people wandered past were paying no attention. Quite strange indeed.

"I could make one of those in my sleep, easy," John continued.

"Then do so!" said the man. He hastily folded up John's order, stuffed it into a canvas bag and thrust his hand forward in the universal 'money' gesture.

John dropped a credit chip into the man's palm, eyebrow still raised.

The man passed it back, along with the canvas bag, after a few moments of puttering with his machine behind the counter. One of the necklaces sat nestled on top of the jackets, when John looked down to inspect the contents of the bag, and he smiled at the man, saying, "That so difficult?"

The man rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Gray," John said, switching back to Trade and turning his smile on the boy instead. His tone was far too cheery. The stall owner's eyes narrowed. "Let's not inconvenience the fellow, I'm sure he's got a great many customers waiting."

Half a corridor of walking later, John passed the canvas bag to Gray, revealing the pair of trousers he'd... _acquired _whilst arguing with the stall owner. "These ought to fit you, I think," he mused, tilting his head from side to side at them as Gray blinked. John grinned, looking at him sideways. "What?"

"I didn't see you..."

"Nope," John said, popping the 'p'.

Gray settled for frowning, but accepted the trousers when they were offered to him, and John stuck his hands back in his pockets, whistling tunelessly as he continued to lead the way.


	13. Easy Come, Easy Go

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 26,393

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen – Easy Come, Easy Go**

Clothes purchased (both for Gray _and_ John, seeing as how a few of the captain's t-shirts were past adorably grimy and into the realm of crawling away under their own power), ammo restocked and various other last-minute errands run, John started back toward the docking bay where the shuttle was.

They weren't all that far away when the corridors started to get impossibly crowded, the filtered air thick with grunted curses in a hundred different languages. Gray twitched closer to John whilst trying, at the same time, to twitch away from everyone around him.

Too many. Too much.

John took hold of the boy's closest hand. "Easy now."

Gray seemed to relax the tiniest bit, and John tugged the hand as he stepped forward into the thrumming scrum, dodging around a something or other with waving blue tentacles and murmuring backwards to Gray, "Don't let go."

Only Gray froze at the words, and pulled his hand out of John's grip a split-second later.

John whirled around, trying not to lose Gray amongst the hoard of impatient, shoving extra-terrestrials (the author realises all of her main cast of characters are technically extra-terrestrials, being not of the planet Earth, but for the sake of quick storytelling, the description stays).

"You know," Gray said, when John managed to reach him again, his lips pulled away from his teeth in something that was too controlled to be a snarl.

Was that what this was about? John was darkly amused as he looked up and met Gray's gaze. "Oh, yes. I know."

Gray's fingers closed into fists, but they relaxed again as he stared down at John. "He told you?"

"He told me a lot of things, Gray," John murmured, voice only just audible over the crowd eddying around them.

"He told you how he left me to—"

Gray was cut off as a three eyed, slimy haired creature, taller than them both, shunted into him from behind, growling something in its native tongue.

John shunted the trifocal... _thing_ back— Oh, it was a Rotui. Goddamn upstart of a species. They'd only broken atmosphere a couple of centuries back, and already they were trying to lord it over everyone else. The annoying thing was that they managed, most of the time. Had branches of companies all over the place, in almost every business imaginable. The fact that they treated everyone not of their own in the same manner (as filth) made them perfect for the cut-throat world of the inter-galactic business.

Their biggest interest, though, was in the slave trade. Big market for _that_, in this day and age, what with humanity stretching all over the place. Always expanding. Always more. Always some stragglers who took a wrong turn somewhere ready to get snatched up, whipped and zapped into obedience and bought at dirt-cheap prices. The galaxy turned. Things kept working. Businesses made profits. Life carried on, for the lucky ones, as usual.

John had had a few close calls with Rotuin in the past – missions going awry through no fault of his own, or foresight abandoning ship in time to leave him with his back up against the wall (though it could be argued those two were not so dissimilar) – and as such, he always took an instant dislike to any Rotuin he met. It was the principle of the thing. You were allowed to dislike those who've tried to kill you or enslave you in the past.

But this Rotui wasn't doing that, with his very fine cut of suit. This Rotui was just being an inconvenience, so John sent it on its way with the best regards his vocabulary could muster on such short notice. Not taking kindly to uppity behaviour such as this, from a small thing such as John, the Rotui snarled in his face, which had Gray flinching, and then shoved away whilst muttering about worthless humans getting underfoot.

Gray trembled. John wrapped a hand around the boy's upper arm and tugged him out of the throng. Gray... sort of struggled, at this. Not wanted to be dragged, and not wanting to stay in the crowd either.

"You were saying?" John said, when they'd achieved some semblance of peace and calm outside the shop front of JoJo's Pizzeria, which was right next to a little place called Elrond & Son's Pest Exterminators. John frowned for the pairing there before returning his attention to Gray. Who was trying to remember what peace and calm felt like.

"Gray?" prompted John.

"He..." Gray looked away and then back, a sick little gleam in his eyes. It seemed almost happy. But not quite. "He told you how he left me to them?"

John regarded him for several long moments. "Yes."

"Tell me about him," Gray said, putting his hand back in John's.

"Look, kid—"

"I want to know." Gray squeezed with John's fingers with his, like he was trying for encouragement but hadn't read the manual. "Please."

The regarding and consideration went on for even longer, this time. Then John said, "He was a dick. Pure and simple."

Gray flicked his eyes over John's expression. There was something there. Some feeling he knew and recognised. Festered hurt, just beneath the surface.

"He hurt you?" Gray guessed, and John looked away. Which was much of an answer as Gray needed. And he smiled down at John. "He hurt me, too."

"It's not that simple," John said, looking back up and frowning a little. He frowned even more when he saw the smile, though. "What?"

"Something in common. We've something in common."

John's brows stopped furrowing in favour of heading hairline-wards. Then he snorted, shaking it off. "If you say so." He glanced around. Glanced down at his wrist strap, as if it was reminding him of the time. "Let's get to the ship."

This time, Gray didn't object when John dodged back into the thrumming, eddying crowds.

* * *

LeLouch tapped his foot on the grated floor. "You finished yet?"

"Patience is a virtue," John trilled to the underside of the ship's flight console, wires and circuitry draped around him as he lay on his back and jacked his vortex manipulator into the system.

"Not one that you or Lu posses, sad to say," Marek said from across the room.

John chuckled. Untangled his hand from the console's innards and stuck it out into the open air. "Octopus?"

LeLouch rummaged through the toolkit and passed down the requested item, a thin cylinder with a knobbly bit on the end that just happened to look like an octopus's head. Perfect thing for closing circuits without the fear of things looping back, though.

Octopus where it ought to be, John carried on, muttering things under his breath as he worked. Finally he shut all the hatches up but one and slid out from under the console. "Voila."

LeLouch frowned down at him. "Voi-what?"

"Never mind."

"It means 'there it is', or 'there you are' in old Earth French," Marek put in, unfolding himself from the chair he'd been flopping on.

"Oh," said LeLouch. He eyed John again. "You couldn't have just said that?"

John eyed him right back. "I don't understand you, sometimes."

"Wha?"

"Go sit in your seat," he said, voice prim and almost matronly. "Go." And somehow he managed to shoo LeLouch away whilst still lying flat on his back.

LeLouch made a highly put upon noise, Marek scoffed, and John chortled his way up to standing. Then the two people who actually owned the ship, and therefore knew (for the most part) how to fly it, settled into the flight chairs in front of the console while LeLouch headed back along the cockpit to strap himself into one of the less swanky chairs.

John span his chair around – which earned a glare from LeLouch, seeing as how his chair, being of the less swanky variety, couldn't do that, and this in turn earned a smug look from John – and called down toward the back end of the ship. "Graaay."

Marek started activating the systems they'd need for the Rift jump. Stabilizers and suchlike.

Gray padded out of the bunkroom toward the cockpit and stood in the doorway. Short doorway. Tall kid. Technically he hunched in the doorway, but never mind that. "John?"

"Take a seat. Strap yourself in."

Gray did so, ignoring (or not caring about, it was hard to tell which... and yes, they were different things, with him) LeLouch watching him out of the corner of his grey eyes.

John flicked switches on the console until the communication systems stopped complaining about the intrusion of his wrist strap and started doing what he told them to. Which was to send a transmission wave to Director Denovan so she could retro-lock the ships coordinates and zip the thing in its entirety (and hopefully its occupants, 'cause otherwise they were screwed) across space to the Medusa Cascade station.

Several beeps and flicks later, the communication systems finally acquiesced to John's demands and Lindsa Denovan's familiar voice drifted out of the speakers, slightly amused: "That was quick."

"You're never happy are you?" John said, amused himself.

"Not if I can help it, no." Lindsa's voice seemed more amused than before. "Saves time."

"So sweet."

"I try."

"Captain, Director... If we could get on with this?"

If it was possible for a voice to change direction, Lindsa's did. "Lieutenant Takashi, wasn't it?"

"Director," Marek said in confirmation.

"I can believe you're a partner of Hart's."

John grinned, looking almost smug, Marek gave a minute eye roll, and LeLouch found himself craving popcorn all of a sudden (or some such similar snack) from his seat behind the pair of them.

"But anyway, yes," Lindsa continued, "you have a point, Lieutenant."

Marek's turn to look smug, but he did it in his own mild, cool manner, and John's grinned dimmed somewhat. As John and Lindsa continued to exchange mindless (and often insulting, such was their way) banter, Marek leaned forward to start extracting the ship from the Merry Month of Mae slip it was docked at, after exchanging a few access codes with whomever/whatever was answering at Port Control.

He paused with his hand on the propulsion controls. "Get a few klickits away first?"

"Ayep," said John, and he reached forward to... well, not to deal with his side of the flight controls, as Marek had first thought. What he did instead was flick at the communication panel until it produced a cheery sounding 'blip-blip' and then he said (to Lindsa, presumably) in an teeth meltingly sweet and cheerful tone of voice, "Your call is important to us. Please hold, and an operator will be with you shortly."

"Hart—"

Blip-blip. Marek raised his brows slightly, and LeLouch said, sounding every bit as amused as he looked (not that anyone was looking), "Did you just cut her off?"

"I put her on hold," said John, waving one hand while his other busied itself with propulsion related controls. "Totally different thing."

"Ooh-kay..."

The ship shuddered as it lurched forward the desired amount, and John and Marek exchanged _almost_-glares until they found a sort of balance and then the ship glided smoothly along.

Gray, having not been mentioned for a while, was just watching the three other men. Seeing how they interacted. Waiting to see how it applied to him, and how he could apply it to his needs. Whatever his needs were. He hadn't really gotten that far.

"That ought to do it," John murmured, and between them, he and Marek brought the ship to a standstill, slowly turning against the backdrop of stars. He reached forward to flick at the communication panel again ('blip-blip') and said, "Still there, dear Director?"

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Lindsa said, proving that she indeed was still there.

"You shouldn't bother," said John. "Optimism just means you lack information."

Marek cleared his throat. Behind him, LeLouch grinned.

"Relaying coordinates..." Lindsa's voice was replaced by a string of beeps, whistles and stuttered static. "Hope you're all ready."

"Ready for what, exactly?" came LeLouch's voice.

Marek and John looked back at him. Looked at each other. Back at him.

"You've never gone by Rift flare before, either?" asked John.

"No?"

John laaaughed. "Right then." He swivelled his chair back the way it'd come.

"Oi!" LeLouch protested, and Marek gave a sympathetic "what can you do?" type shrug before swivelling back himself.

"In five, in four, in three, in two, in one—"

The ship disappeared in a whorl of golden light, spotted only by an astrologer on a planet not too far away who immediately called it a miracle, founded a religion, and was then stoned to death ten years later for reputedly owning a faulty telescope. But that's a moot point. The ship still disappeared.


	14. Before Midnight and Other Almosts

**Author note:** The last paragraph of chapter thirteen probably makes me far too happy. To note. Reviews are much appreciated! I love to know what you think about what's going to happen. (Because it's all gonna bite _someone_ in the bum soon, and we, the readers/writers, know it. Bwaha.)

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 28,395

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen – Before Midnight and Other Almosts**

The ship disappeared in a whorl of golden light. A split second of infinity, buffeting gold, time, space, emptiness and the faintest hint of lemon cheesecake later, it reappeared millions of miles from the place it had left.

John chuckled to himself, wriggling in the safety straps of the chair and riding the bumpy, citrus-tanged high of it all. Marek was staring straight ahead, blinking too slowly while LeLouch tried to rub away the headache he could feel forming, and Gray, in his seat behind them all, was clutching at the safety straps in sheer "someone make the universe stop spinning, I want to get off" shock.

And then he looked up and ahead, and his breath caught on a gasp at what he saw through the ship's view screen.

"The Rift at the Medusa Cascade," John said, announcing the… hard to say what the Medusa Cascade _was_, exactly, at least not without the dramatic use of hand-gestures. But there it was, in front of their ship, and John announced it like a footman at a fancy party.

"Well," LeLouch breathed, "isn't that something and a half…"

Lindsa's voice coughed from wherever the speakers on the console were.

"What, we're not allowed to gawp, Linny?"

"Oh, gawp away, _Captain_." She put a lot of emphases on the word, probably trying to imply thst John might like to extend the same courtesy?

John just grinned in the general direction of the speakers.

"Just be aware that docking port four alpha's ready and waiting," Lindsa continued, "when you're done staring."

"Thank you, Director," Marek murmured, already reaching for the controls needed to guide the ship in. "Sir?" That last was aimed at John – a gentle but pointed (and slightly amused) reminder that Marek couldn't fly the ship on his lonesome.

"Mm," said John, leaning forward himself. "Mm hmm."

Together they steered, and the collective cylinder shapes of the Medusa Cascade outpost station drifted into view on the main view screen.

LeLouch pulled a face. "That's it?"

John eyed the speakers, waiting for the inevitable retort… Ah, there it went.

"If you don't want to come aboard," Lindsa drawled in an almost bored sounding tone of voice, "you're perfectly… Wait, who are you?"

"Alphonse LeLouch," said Alphonse LeLouch. "No title."

"Then if you don't want to come on board, Alphonse LeLouch, no title, you're perfectly welcome to hop out of an airlock and asphyxiate at your leisure."

"How very gracious of you, Director," LeLouch said, inclining his head toward the console.

When Marek glanced back to confirm his suspicions (he found it wise to always harbour several, when dealing with either John or LeLouch), LeLouch was indeed smirking. Why did Marek always end up with people like this? Okay, it wasn't like he'd had a choice with either of these two, between getting sort of kidnapped and getting partnered by Time Agency high ups, but… They laughed in the face of danger when they should run, ran when they should stay and fight (it being the honourable thing to do, at times), and spent the intervening moments swaggering around and thinking they were the Goddess's gift to creation.

The _really_ annoying thing was that, as well as being arrogant, they were pretty damn good at what they did. So it sort of made up for it. If John Hart or LeLouch Alphonse really and truly applied themselves to something, some task or mission or another, then people had to watch their backs (and fronts, and sides, and tops, and bottoms, and other assorted facets that depended on species) else heads would roll.

The ship, not aware of Marek's inner train of thought, docked with a grate (and bone) shuddering 'clank'.

* * *

"You've been running this place with only four people?" John glanced around the loading bay, his surprise unusually evident. Marek and LeLouch were busying themselves with crates of supplies while Gray lurked somewhere around the edges. "_How_

?"

"Well, with only three, technically, since Kassis—"

"Which one was Kassis?" There'd been brief introductions. Very brief. As in the three other people in the station had stuck their heads into the loading bay as they passed it and grunted murmurs of greeting were exchanged before they disappeared again.

"Blue-grey skin," said Lindsa. "White hair. Moves like an anorexic ballet dancer on speed?"

"Oh," said John. "Yeah. Her."

"She only arrived a few days ago. Eric vouched her."

"But… _how_?"

Lindsa quirked an amused eyebrow at him. (Which isn't to say that Lindsa, too, wasn't amused.) "The usual way? She's got this neat little ship, looks like a cocoon with—"

John cut her off. "You know what I meant," he said. "Holy freaking Rassilon on a ritz cracker, how have you kept this wreck in the sky?"

Lindsa laughed. "Effort. I realise it's a rather new fangled concept, but you might like to try it sometime."

John snorted. "Touché, touché."

"It hasn't been easy, John."

"No, I can imagine…"

There was a long pause, during which the pair of them glanced absently around and got glared at by the two men lugging heavy crates around. John and Lindsa ignored them.

"So who's the kid?" she asked after a little while of this.

There was an even longer pause, then. John studied a conduit over Linda's shoulder. "You remember Hasphane?"

Linda's eyebrow was less than amused, this time. "Do I remember Hasphane?" she scoffed and let loose a derisive snort. "I remember the utter wreck you were after he left."

John turned on a heel, moving so that he stood beside Lindsa, and he nodded to where Gray was standing and watching Marek and LeLouch.

"The kid's his brother," murmured John.

Lindsa couldn't help the way her eyes widened, though she'd have rather liked to. "Huh," she said.

"Yeah."

"And… why's he here?" She frowned at Gray, then frowned up at John. "What're you planning?"

"Who says I'm planning anything?"

"It's you, John. You're you. You plan things. I'm not saying they always work _out_…"

John snorted. "You make a valid point, I guess."

"But?" Lindsa prompted, sensing the word hanging in the air.

"But I really don't have a plan. Least, not yet. Really."

Lindsa's brows furrowed again slightly, a twinge of concern highlighting the facial twitch. "Be careful though, yeah?"

John _really_ snorted then. "Don't get all big sister on me now, Linny."

"I would never dream of doing such a thing," Lindsa said, as lightly as she dared.

* * *

A small cat meandered down the narrow hallway, following after John and Gray as they in turn followed after Lindsa. The latter ignored it, and the former just didn't notice.

Until Gray glanced back, that was, and caught sight of the cat and missed his step.

John's head whipped around. "Gray?"

The cat, a small leopard printed thing with a tuft of dark red hair on top of its head (almost a Mohawk) hissed up at Gray, fur bristling.

Gray hissed back. Or at least that's the closest description at hand of what he did.

"Oh, that's Bartholomew," Lindsa said, retracing her steps to see what all the fuss was about.

John blinked away from the strange feline creature. "Bartholowho?"

"No, Bartholo_mew_."

John eyed her.

"What?" said Lindsa.

"Nothing." John put a hand on Gray's shoulder. "Hey, play nicely."

There was another hissing exchange as Gray shrugged off John's hand. The bemusement in Lindsa's expression filtered away, leaving severity in its wake. In a warning tone, she said, "John..."

He flicked her a glance before returning his attention to Gray and the circling moggy. "Gray." No dice. "_Gray_."

Gray's eyes lost their animalistic fire as they snapped to John. Confusion replaced it, for a moment, as his breathing shivered.

John tried the hand on the shoulder routine again, and aimed a kick at Bartholomew the Miniature Punk Leopard while he was at it. The Miniature Punk Leopard Bartholomew, not taking kindly to this, swiped a claw in the general direction of John's shin and scuttled off back down the corridor.

The noise of Gray's slowly steadying mingled with that of the ventilation systems above them, and both Time Agents watched the boy with a calm sort of wariness that one tended to settle into at times, after living lives like theirs.

Gray relaxed all the way a few moments later, and Lindsa continued leading him and John on (with Gray looking shifty and John watching him out of the corner of his eye) to the free corridor of rooms she was chucking the four latest arrivals in.

Not that she was expecting any more to come. Most everyone from the old days were packing it in and trying to lie as low as they could manage.

"There's a meal everyday at about 1800 hours," Lindsa said, leaning in the doorway to John's chosen room. "Rest of the time it's as you like and when you like, as long as—"

"As long as you clean up afterwards?"

Lindsa's lips twitched, fighting a smile. Glancing up and seeing this, John grinned. Bent to gather up an errant sock and asked, "So how's old Carrot-top?"

Even without looking around, John could feel the twitching smile drop away. And he grinned even more.

"_Eric_," Lindsa said, glaring at John's back, "is fine. Thanks for asking."

"You're welcome," John shot back over his shoulder, cheery as you like. It'd been too long since he'd seen her. Hard to keep in touch when you were jetting across time and space the way John did, the way he liked to.

"I'll be in the engine room, if you need me." Lindsa straightened and pushed off the doorframe. John nodded to her, and she wound the door shut behind herself.

* * *

A familiar scream ripped through the previously quiet chunterings of the space station's air filtration system, and John nearly fell off his bed. Which was strange, because he'd been sleeping on a much narrower bunk before and never seemed to have much trouble staying on the bed _then_.

But that hardly mattered now. John tugged on a shirt, wriggled into the closest pair of trousers to hand and padded out into the corridor to Gray's room. Marek stuck his head out of his own room at much the same time, neck scarf tugged up into his hair and making it stick out at the most peculiar of angles. (LeLouch had already vanished to spend some more of his share of the cargo haul, and that blue-grey skinned Kassis had gone with him.)

John grunted an incomprehensible greeting to the other sleep-deprived man as he headed toward the source of the muffled whimpers. Opened Gray's door when he got there.

The room was almost pitch black but for the slight illumination provided by a slim view screen in the wall furthest away from John. "Hey?"

The whimpers cut off. Shivering breaths replaced them, and then... "John."

"Hey, kid," the man in question (or not, as it would seem) murmured. "Bad one?"

Gray didn't answer.

John flicked the lights up a notch or two. Came over to perch on the bed beside Gray. "Okay," he said, bringing a hand up and counting off each finger in turn. "You can tell me about it and then we talk, you can tell me about it and I'll shut up and listen, or you can tell me about it and we can get drunk as irresponsible skunks. What's your poison?"

Gray blinked slowly at him, then asked, in the tone of one who hopes the question is the right one and will help make the prompter make sense (and soon), "Strychneen?"

John... opened and closed his mouth. Ought to have seen that one coming, really. "Stay there." And he stood back up, to Gray's mounting confusion. "I'll be back in just a moment..."

Two bottles of mega-gin and one rambling teenager later, John reflected that, on the whole, he'd had better ideas.


	15. Ask I Might Answer

**Author note:** Sadly, I've fallen behind again, chapter wise, thanks to an unexpected bout of not-very-well-at-all-ness. Mrm. I hope you all like this, though! (Also, don't ask how, but I managed the NaNoWriMo dare where you have a sentence over 300 words long. Good luck getting sense out of it.)

**NaNoWriMo word count:** 30,425

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen – Ask (I Might Answer)**

On the whole, John reflected that he'd definitely had better ideas in the past. Mind you, he'd also had worse ideas, so it was a bit of a mental balancing act with regard to where you wanted to draw the line between 'good' and 'bad'.

Or maybe that was the gin talking. John switched to hyper-vodka.

"I want to find him, John," Gray slurred for the umpteenth time.

"He disappeared," John told the boy again. "He's gone. He _left_."

"You could find him?" Hope, though dimmed by the alcohol, flared. "Find him for me?"

John snorted a laugh. Regretted it when Gray's face fell. "Kid..."

"He's all I've ever wanted, John. All— all those years..."

John tried to steer the conversation back to happier (ish?) things. It didn't work so well. "You're free now, Gray. You could do anything. Go anywhere. Go any_when_. Where first?"

Gray regarded him with... well, with glum regard. And then he pushed up abruptly from the bedspread, swung to his feet and made it two steps across the small room before his legs gave out.

John looked down at the pile of Gray. "You're free to go anywhere, and you went to the floor?"

There may have been a small giggle.

John smiled lazily as he reached for the bottle again.

The giggle turned to a sob.

John's smile dropped. (Thankfully, the bottle didn't follow suit.) "Gray?"

"I want... I want..."

John slid off the bed and shuffled over to Gray. "What do you want?"

Ragged gasping. "Anywhere. Anywhen. You said. C— can... can I go back?" Gray peered up at John with red-rimmed eyes. "Back to when he... when it all... Please?"

Realisation flickered in the forefront of John's mind like an unwelcome splash of cold water. Gray must have seen the answer on John's face because he moaned and curled up again.

John rolled his eyes. "Gray."

"No!"

"Graaaay."

"Anywhere, anywhen. So why not _then_?"

"Because," said John.

Gray straightened. Almost petulantly, he said, "That doesn't make sense."

Amusement. "Did anyone say it had to?"

"_Please_."

"I can't, Gray. It's impossible."

"Why? Surely if you just—"

"Gray." John's eyebrows rose, like a parent hitting their point softly home. "No."

Gray moved forward all of a sudden, then. Or at least, he tried to. The alcohol was weighing on his muscles even as it loosened up his mind. "Is there anything I can do?"

John frowned. "What?"

"To make you change your mind."

Realisation flickered again, and John looked away even as Gray tried to lean closer. He put a hand out, fingers flattening on Gray's chest. "Stop."

"But—"

"Gray," he said, looking back at the boy. Gray's eyes swam as he tried to focus on John. "It's already happened," John murmured, "and it's going to stay happened. There's _nothing_ anyone here can do to change that."

He let his hand drop.

Gray stayed where he was, several inches away from John's face, for a few moments longer before he pulled away and curled up again.

"Gray, if I took you back there... You'd want to change things."

Something incomprehensible whispered out from between Gray's knees.

"Oh, you're saying you wouldn't?"

Silence, then. Gray sniffled. John sighed and said, "Look. We'll talk about it more later, yeah?" More silence. John knee-walked to where Gray was and put a hand on his shoulder. Gray twitched. "Gray..."

"My head feels funny," Gray mumbled.

Was that a flaring of guilt in the pit of John's stomach? It might just have been. "You should go back to bed, then, shouldn't you?"

"But I want—"

"Bed."

"Mph."

John kneaded lightly at the shoulder under his hand. Lightly. Persuasively.

"S'not fair," slurred Gray, unfolding himself once more only to nudge his head against John's stomach. John blinked down at him and carefully shifted his hand from Gray's shoulder to tease through the boy's roughly cropped hair. Gray shivered, but didn't pull away. John considered this a win.

"The universe doesn't do fair," he told the side of Gray's head. "Not then, not now, not ever."

"Mph," Gray said again, voice muffled. "It should."

John couldn't helped a snort. "Look, there isn't truly such a thing as what 'should' be. There's only what there is, what it is, and that's it. You think the universe cares for fair or unfair? It doesn't. The universe is emotionless, and the concept of what 'should have been' is something humans invented just to torture themselves with. Humans like doing that, as you may have noticed."

Gray turned his head to look up at John. Blue-grey met red rimmed hazel for several long moments before he whispered, "Thank you."

John blinked again. Ran his fingers through Gray's sandy blonde hair. "What for?"

"Saving me."

The corner of John's mouth twitched up.

"I'll make it up to you," Gray continued. "I'll pay you back for your kindness."

The corner of John's mouth twitched back down. Kindness? Interesting word for it... "Whatever you say, kid."

"I will."

And he said it with such conviction that John's fingers paused of their own accord. Gray smiled, pulled away from John and crawled back to his bed.

Well, he tried to crawl back to it, anyway.

Upon hearing a soft thump and another small giggle, John turned and saw Gray half entangled in the bed sheets as the boy attempted the foot and a half climb (it looked more like an expedition) back up into his bed, and he had to laugh.

* * *

"Where's John?"

"Captain Hart," Marek said, lowering the newspaper he'd stolen off LeLouch to peer at Gray as the boy entered the galley, "is off on some planet chasing a bit of skirt. Or possibly a bit of trouser. Or some other miscellaneous clothing item that depends on gender and species." He tilted his head. "Why d'you ask?"

"No reason," Gray said, glancing around the long room. Marek was sat in the small cubby hole of a dining area, feet up on the table and ankles crossed, a steaming bowl of something or other beside them. He quirked a brow, clearly not believing that, but shrugged and went back to absently flicking through the newspaper. Two weeks since they had arrived at the Medusa Cascade space station. Two weeks of Gray's screaming nightmares and of John silently (well, mostly silently) saying that he could deal with it.

Marek had stopped getting out of bed to check, by now.

But continuing the 'two weeks' train of thought... It'd been two weeks since they'd arrived, two weeks of Gray's nightmares interrupting his sleep, and two weeks since Marek had had the full introductions with the rest of the people on board the station. Eric Sorrel, Isabelle Jenkins and Kassis Rodya Illiam. Though the latter preferred just Kassis on most occasions.

Eric Sorrel was the engineer, a tall red head with a penchant for oil spotted caps and overalls who kept near enough all the mechanical systems on the space station chuntering, and who Lindsa often had to physically drag away from the engine room (he and Lindsa were partners, Marek had gathered, and had been so for some time, to bicker the way they did – and so loudly – with no worries for how the outcome would affect their relationship); Isabelle Jenkins was an expert in technological systems from a selection of backgrounds and eras, a short (very short, actually, since she had only come up to the middle of Marek's chest when the pair had met), young blonde – she couldn't have been older than fourteen or so, either, which was really quite strange because it wasn't like the Time Agency hired children, they wouldn't risk lives so unlived – who wore thick glass safety spectacles, like milk bottle bottoms, over violet eyes, dark blue scrubs with combat boots and a strange sort of pendant around her neck; finally, Kassis Rodya Illiam... well, she was hard to describe, or perhaps "hard to take in all at once" would be a better way to put it – being only a few inches taller than Isabelle Jenkins and mildly humanoid in appearance, she had pale blue grey skin, a thin, lithe build, short cropped hair that was a sort of powdered white that made Marek think of dust (only in a clean way?) and she tended to wear dark, skin tight clothes, all of the same bluey grey tones as her skin, and it wasn't like she didn't know as many, if not more, languages than Marek, but you had set your ears to full speed to keep up with each and every word, else wise it was just chirped gibberish.

Mild disbelief of attempted nonchalance aside, Marek folded up his (was it his or LeLouch's, now? Ownership was eleven tenths of the law, with Time Agents... so probably it was Marek's newspaper until LeLouch stole it back off him) newspaper and speared a piece of dubious meat from his steaming bowl of something or other and asked, "You hungry?"

Gray nodded, the action almost absent. Marek frowned a bit.

"Pot of..." Marek squinted at his bowl. Looked back up at Gray. "Food on the stove. Bowls are in the second cupboard along. Help yourself."

A repeat of the absent nod. Gray went over to schlop (technical term, that) himself a bowl and then wandered over to where Marek was to sit opposite the taller, older man. "When will he be back?"

Marek licked his spoon in a thoughtful manner, gazing over it at Gray. "No idea."

And yet another nod... Gray stirred his food a time or two before starting to eat, and Marek continued to watch him. If the boy seemed aware of the attention, if he was bothered by it, he didn't let on.

Which suited Marek just fine.

* * *

Night time, or the time that Marek had decided to call 'night', produced more eventfulness. Looking up at the ceiling of his room, Marek decided that he had had enough of eventfulness. Maybe he would settle down somewhere and grow sheep. That's what people with uneventful lives did, right?

Gray screamed again. John wasn't back or Gray would have stopped by now. Marek grumbled to the room at large before tugging on some trousers and going to check on the kid.

"John?" Gray whispered, when Marek wound the door open.

"He's not back yet."

Gasping breath, gasping breath.

"Anything I can do?" No answer. Marek sighed and reached to turn the lights up a bit. "Hey?"

Gray's eyes, wide and panicked, darted to him. "I don't want to see it. I keep seeing it."

"Seeing what?" Marek asked, though by the time the words were out of his mouth, he realised they may have been a mistake.

"Everyone dying by inches around me." Gray's gaze dropped to Marek's knees, then flicked back up again. "Why did I survive? Why didn't I just..."

"Surviving is nothing to feel ashamed about."

Gray just swallowed, trying to steady his breathing.

Marek couldn't help the way his brow quirked upwards, at that. "You don't believe me?"

"I don't feel ashamed," Gray told his own knees, hidden under the tangled sheets. "I just... I don't understand why."

"Do you need to?"

Gray looked confusion at him. Yes, yes he did.

Marek pushed off from the doorway and came to sit on the edge of the bed beside Gray. "You survived because you did," he said, rearranging Gray's bed sheets a little. "We found you because we did."

"And my brother let me get taken by _them_ because he did?"

Their gazes met, and the sudden blazing... was that anger or hurt? Or possibly something sicker? Whatever it was... in Gray's eyes made Marek look away. "Maybe," he said, not knowing all the facts. Not like John had told him everything about the boy. "Whatever the matter, it happened and it will stay happened and the only thing you can do is move forwards."

"Or backwards?" Gray murmured, a twinkle of amusement covering up the sick, angered hurt as he nodded to Marek's wrist strap.

"Or backwards," Marek wryly agreed.

Gray just smiled, then.


End file.
